Author's Note: Although I've only recently begun reading PD fanfic, I've noticed that King Rupert seems to get a bad rap in a lot of stories. Surely the guy couldn't be that bad, right?

One night (after I'd had PD 2 on for background noise for the better part of a weekend) Joseph stopped by this great little sidewalk café I have operating in a back corner of my mind. Lots of my favorite movie, TV, and book characters drop in there from time to time. Some become regulars, some just try out the latte and move on. Joseph stayed to chat for a while. Eventually, we got around to the fact that he feels the same way about Rupert's reputation. Then Joseph started telling me all about the way it was with Rupert. And with Pierre. And with Philippe. And, of course, with Clarisse. How could I not listen to him? I had to be polite, you know. And then Clarisse dropped by and . . . well, my manners mattered even more.

One thing led to another and before you know you it my brain was feeling ticklish and my fingers were getting itchy. Many of you are, no doubt, familiar with those feelings. It was only a matter of time before the story began to form. And it took only a little prodding from Joseph (who has become quite the regular, thank you very much!) before the beginning of the story was more or less ready to share. I'm not quite sure how long it will go on; so much depends on the size of one's coffee pot.

It should go without saying that I have no rights to Joseph or any of his friends from the movie (the original characters are mine); I just give him virtual coffee. I also have no rights to the lyrics of the song I'm using for chapter titles. I just realized that they "fit" the story after I'd written six or seven scenes.

Hopefully, you will enjoy. And then you will review, and we'll all have lots of fun together as this takes shape.

One quick linguistic note: I do not now, nor have I ever spoken Spanish. I'm relying on an online translator for a few words. I did take French in school, but that was decades ago, so again that translator is getting a workout. If I err and offend, I apologize.

Glossary for chapter 1: hermanos brothers; cállese shut up; rico rich

Because You Loved Me

For all those times you stood by me . . .

1979

He was doing it again.

It seemed he was always doing it lately. It hadn't been that way at first, but for the last few months the new Royal Head of Security had gotten downright annoying.

Clarisse was accustomed to people not making eye contact with her. After twenty years in the palace she was quite familiar with that odd holdover from medieval times. Most people would look slightly to one side or at a nearby piece of furniture; a few looked at their own feet, but they would at least still talk in her general direction – at her, if not to her or with her.

This old friend Rupert had recently installed as Head of Security was completely different. He never looked at her any more – except when she wasn't watching. Clarisse never actually saw him looking at her, but she could feel his eyes on her. And then she could just as clearly feel his gaze shift whenever she turned toward him. And somehow, even when she knew he wasn't looking at her, it still felt as though he was studying her in minute detail. She couldn't recall just when his "not looking" had changed from being just like everyone else to being something radically different.

Mentioning it to Rupert would accomplish nothing. He was absolutely convinced, for reasons he would never discuss, that the man was unwaveringly loyal. Perhaps she could turn his own game around and stare him down. If she stared at him long enough, maybe he would get the point. No, no, that would never do for the queen to be staring moodily at anyone; people would talk. She would have to be more circumspect. Perhaps she could catch him passing in a corridor and engage him in conversation. Good heavens, no, what would the staff think? He rarely assigned himself to her personal guard detail; he spent most of his days at Rupert's side, or occasionally one of the boys', so her opportunities were limited. And wasn't that odd? He really didn't spend that much time in her company, so why did it seem he was always watching her?

He was doing it now, the "not looking." He was standing with Rupert at the mouth of an alley next to the new community center they were here to open. The community centers had become a pet project of Rupert's since his coronation. He was genuinely inspired to improve living conditions for all of Genovia's citizens. This particular neighborhood had been among the worst for many years, but time, attention, and no small amount of money from the royal treasury were slowly altering the local landscape.

There! Just as she looked at him he turned to stare intently at a garbage can in the alley, and yet she would swear he was still watching her. He was speaking to Rupert again, several meters away from where she stood in the shade, and yet . . .

Joseph shrugged to adjust the fit of his black leather jacket across his shoulders as he surveyed the crowd. It would be so much easier if the King would confine himself to the palace and secure indoor settings, but this king had always been one to push the envelope. Rupert was a risk-taker, no doubt about that.

Taking a quick risk of his own, Joseph allowed his gaze to settle oh so briefly on Queen Clarisse. She was perfection, as always. Did Rupert know just how lucky he was? She lifted her eyes to his and he turned smoothly away, as though his eyes had only rested on her momentarily as he assessed the surroundings. Where to look now? Ah, that trash can over there was most unusual . . .

He grinned tightly, acutely conscious of the Queen's pensive gaze, and leaned forward as Rupert spoke.

"Does it take you back, Joe? Being here?" The king chucked Joseph lightly in the stomach.

"Indeed, sir," Joseph replied. "But perhaps not the most promising beginning to a life of public service."

"Do you think so? Because we wouldn't be here at all if not for you."

Joseph raised his eyebrows; startled at the credit he was being given. Not that King Rupert was one to hog glory in anything; he just rarely mentioned their friendship's basis in so public a setting. Joseph shook his head slightly, his eyes drawn once more to Rupert's queen. Then again maybe their meeting had been more auspicious than he'd thought. It had been this very alley . . .

1947

He'd been about seven, perhaps eight, and had spent the late afternoon running from his older brother's gang of fourteen year-old cutthroats. It seemed they'd always chased him for some reason or another. Had he deserved it that day?

As dusk fell he'd ducked into the alley to escape Claude, one of his brother's worst, intending to run full out and jump the locked gate at the back of Senor Gutierrez' butcher shop. Instead he'd tripped on something slick and cloying and probably dead. He stumbled forward, bumped off of a trash can, and sprawled face down atop an older boy huddled against the alley wall.

"Hey!" the other boy yelled, pushing him off.

"Shh!" Joseph whispered intently. "They'll hear."

"Who?" the boy demanded curtly.

"Hermanos." Joseph regarded the other boy with scorn. "Don't you know anything?"

"More than you, you little . . ."

"Cállese!" Joseph muttered, glancing to the mouth of the alley. He looked the boy over quickly and made his decision. "Come on! You help me; I'll help you, rich boy."

Joseph hauled the older boy to his feet and directed him to boost him over the butcher's gate. His shirt hiked up his stomach as he scrambled over – it would have been better with a running start – and he scraped his left side on a protruding nail.

"It stinks in here!" The older boy said as he landed in a crouch, holding his nose tightly.

"Butcher shop," Joseph wheezed. He gently lowered himself to the blood-spattered cement as he cradled his left side.

"So these 'Hermanos'? Your brothers?" The boy settled himself to the ground beside Joseph. "Are you hurt?"

"My brother's gang. I'm fine." Joseph inhaled deeply, determined not to show any weakness.

"His gang? As in criminals? In Pyrus?" The older boy seemed genuinely shocked.

"We can't all have pastries and ponies all day." Joseph glared at his companion. "How did you get here?"

"My father . . ." he trailed off. "He's completely unreasonable! And I outgrew ponies when I was your age."

"How did you get here?" Joseph demanded again. "And why?"

"Pretty direct, aren't you?" he replied with a cocky grin. "I could ask you the same thing. You were running from them; I was just . . . uh, resting. I got lost. Why were you running?" The young man leaned back against the wooden gate.

Joseph shifted so the streetlight above him shone fully on his cohort's face. He studied the boy carefully. "What's your name?" he asked softly, hesitantly.

"Get out! Get out, you young hooligans!" The butcher's voice rose over the clatter of his door.

Joseph jumped to his feet as more light spilled out the back door of the shop. "Senor Gutierrez! It's me. It's just me!"

"Oh . . . oh . . . running again, Joseph?" The old man rested a hand on Joseph's head. "Well, you'd best come inside for a while, my boy. Who's your friend?" he asked, eyeing the other boy suspiciously.

Joseph looked uncertainly from the old man to the boy he'd taken under his protection. The butcher glared at them both, clearly demanding an answer.

"The Hermanos were chasing him, too," Joseph blurted out quickly. I couldn't just leave him there."

The older boy seemed about to speak when all three were moved to silence by angry voices coming from the other side of the alley gate.

The butcher hushed the boys with a gesture and rattled his gate. "Away, away, you hoodlums, or I call the police!"

"Someday, old man, someday we come for you!" Joseph shrunk into himself as he recognized his brother Diego's voice out of the darkness. He heaved a deep sigh as he heard the teens run off.

"So," Senor Gutierrez turned toward them, "your friend's name, Joseph?"

"His name's Rico," Joseph interjected before his companion could reply. "Rico," he stated again more firmly as he dashed through the back door.

The older boy looked briefly puzzled, but didn't argue.

They traipsed through the back rooms of the butcher shop and passed through a plain wooden door. They emerged into a small sitting room that had very little room available for sitting. There were books everywhere – on the shelves that lined every wall, stacked high on low tables, and stacked even higher on the floor behind a battered loveseat and chair. Two small windows looked out on the modest, and, Joseph noted thankfully, empty street. The old man invited them to sit.

"I think we'll be okay in a few minutes, Senor," Joseph insisted. "Rico really needs to get back -- back home. I think his father might be getting worried."

"I think you may be right," Gutierrez added thoughtfully as the boy came fully into the light from his single lamp. "Perhaps you should help this young man find his way home."

"I don't think I know the way," Joseph protested weakly.

"Nonsense! I took you there myself just last week." He rested one hand lightly on each boy's hand, as though in benediction. "I'm sure your friend here can help find the way once you get close. Go along now, but stay out of sight as much as you can."

"Umm . . ." Rico looked around uncertainly.

"There's nothing to fear, Rico," Gutierrez said softly, emphasizing the name. "You're welcome under my roof any time."

"Ah, thank you, sir, thank you. You know who I . . . You know?" He held his hand out to the old man, ill at ease, and struggling to find a proper response.

"We may not be rich, but we aren't stupid!" Joseph thumped him in the stomach.

"Enough of that, young Del Lago," the butcher scolded. He scowled at Joseph from beneath his heavy brow. "Help our young friend find his way home."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Rico asked as Joseph led him through the seedy side of Pyrus.

"Just a scratch," Joseph said off-handedly. "My brother's come home with worse."

"Oh, well . . . sorry about that," Rico offered as they dashed across a dimly lit courtyard.

"Don't be."

"I've often wished I had a brother," Rico murmured, slowing his pace as they approached less danger-ridden neighborhoods.

"You can have mine," Joseph muttered. "Maybe he'd be nicer to your mother than he is to ours."

They arrived shortly at a stone wall marking the boundaries of the grounds of the Genovian Royal Palace. Rico led Joseph along the wall, running his hands carefully over the wall's surface.

"It's here somewhere," he said.

Then his fingers grasped what appeared to be a defect in one of the blocks and twisted it to reveal a small door leading to an underground tunnel. Joseph raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Secret passages." Rico chuckled. "The palace is covered with them." He moved toward the door.

"Well, good luck, Prince Rupert." Joseph offered the boy his hand.

"So you really did know, huh?"

"There're hundreds of pictures of your family all over town – even in my neighborhood."

"Guess I'll need a disguise next time then." He winked as he ducked through the entrance.

"Well, you know where to find me, Your Highness." Joseph called and the young prince turned back. "I'll show you around." Joseph stretched on his toes, hoping to look taller than his seven years.

"Call me . . ." The prince looked thoughtful. "Call me . . . Rico, amigo." He took the little boy's hand warmly but gravely. "Does my guide and protector have a name?"

"Joseph Del Lago," he answered solemnly. "You can call me Joe."