Disclaimer: Not to state the obvious, but, no, I do not own the Princess Diaries (book or film), its characters, or anything related to it except for my two DVDs. I make no profit from this story. I am merely borrowing these characters for a little bit of fun.

A/N: Hey! I realize it has been a long time since my last post, and I am sorry. As I mentioned before, I had my final exam and then with packing/disassembling furniture, etc… I just haven't had much time to write. I hope you are all still there and still interested, and that you enjoy this new installment!

As always, I hope you enjoy, and please review:


On the morning of the exhumation, Clarisse lost track of how long she'd been standing by the same window. Initially, she'd only wanted to be alone, dismissing Charlotte for the remainder of the morning and making her way up to the family's private wing. However, with the knowledge of what was occurring and the emotions she was so deeply immersed in, she somehow found herself standing in Rupert's old suite.

She wasn't sure what it was that had drawn her there – she hadn't been in the King's suite since shortly after his passing – but something about being surrounded by his belongings, many of which were still in their places, frozen in time, untouched since his death, made her feel closer to him.

She hadn't lied to Mia – she and Rupert had been best friends. He may not have been the husband she'd dreamed of as a young girl, nor had he been the father she would have chosen for her boys, but he had been her partner and they had weathered many a storm together.

Her whole life, she'd done her utmost to live up to the duty she'd been given. She'd married when required, hosted great balls and blended into the background at state dinners, she'd borne the traditional heir and a spare and, through it all, she'd only faltered once. One single moment.

Now, as the very tangible consequences of her actions took form, she couldn't help but feel that she had betrayed Rupert. She had, of course, betrayed him as a wife, but that was not what bothered her – she had lived through far too many of Rupert's affairs to feel guilty for her one transgression. What bothered her the most, was that she had betrayed the trust he'd placed in her as his queen – she'd let him down; she'd let the whole country down.


As Pierre made his way down the hall towards his mother's suite, hoping to somehow ease the worry which had led her to dismiss her aide and retire for the morning, he stopped as he found the door to the King's suite ajar. At first, he expected to find that one of the maids had been dusting and forgotten to close the door. He did not, however, expect to find his mother, her back to the door, standing by the large floor-to-ceiling windows, so lost in thought that she didn't even seem to have heard him approach.

For a moment, he merely stood there, unsure what he should do. If she'd been in her suite, he would have entered and offered what comfort he could. However, here, he did not know what to do. He did not want her to have to suffer through this by herself, but he imagined that, in her current setting she probably wished to be alone.

Pierre and, he knew, Philippe, had never much understood the relationship between his parents. They were the picture of perfection as they stood before the cameras, or as they hosted endless evenings of dancing and diplomacy, however, in private, they were never what the boys had been taught to expect from a couple. Pierre could not remember ever witnessing a tender moment, or even a sign of affection between the two – in fact, any signs of complicity he recalled had always been between his mother and Joseph.

Therefore, he did not quite understand his mother's feelings towards his father, or, rather, King Rupert. He did, however, know that, after his death, she had genuinely mourned his loss and that, in whatever capacity, she had cared for him. So, he wasn't sure what comfort he could give – as a priest, he knew how to comfort a grieving widow, a guilty spouse, or a remorseful friend. He did not, however, know which of these his mother was and, thus, he did not know how to help her.

So engrossed was he in his internal debate, the he did not hear anyone approach until he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

As he turned, he was grateful to find Joseph, his face serious, but his eyes soft, standing behind him. He did not know what had or had not changed between the two, but he was certain that if anyone could decipher what his mother was thinking, it was Joseph.

Looking to his father helplessly for what to do, Pierre was comforted by his gentle hand on his shoulder and his determine nod as he took a step towards the door. Giving the older man a brief, grateful smile, Pierre found himself watching silently as Joe slowly walked towards his mother.


Joseph approached her almost cautiously. He could tell from the slight change in her posture that she knew she was not alone. He could also tell, from the almost imperceptible straightening of her shoulders that she knew it was him. He hated that his presence seemed to bring her more tension. But he wasn't yet ready to let go of the hurt he carried. He did not want to be the cause of her pain, but neither was he ready to let go of his own.

Clarisse didn't turn around. She had known it was him from the moment the door had squeaked in warning as someone entered. Under normal circumstances, she would have craved his comfort – would have sought it out, even. But now she was afraid; afraid to see the anger and anguish in his eyes which she was responsible for, afraid that her intense desire for his comfort would only add to the feeling of betrayal she felt standing in Rupert's room.

But then his gentle hand was on her shoulder, and it felt so warm – like home – that she could only close her eyes as another tear fell. Much as it had in the bunker when she'd feared for her son's life, Joseph's touch grounded her and, even if only for a moment, allowed her to breathe.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened, but suddenly, Clarisse had turned to face him, and his arms had surrounded her as her forehead rested on his chest. As she tried to hold back the sobs, her body only shaking more with the effort, Joseph knew he had been right – she blamed herself for what was happening. Despite the fact that it was Parliament's own antiquated and decidedly misogynistic views which had prompted the King's exhumation, she blamed herself for disturbing her friend's peace.

He found himself speaking before he even realized he had something to say, "sh, it will be alright…"

"He didn't deserve this…" she whispered against his shoulder.

Instinctively, he knew she was not referring to their affair, or Pierre's parentage. She was referring to the scandal. Clarisse, who had suffered through enough of her husband's affairs, would be the last to feel guilty about her own – he'd known that from the very beginning. But he also knew that the Queen, who'd given her life to her duty to Genovia, deeply regretted that her actions had cause the people to doubt the Monarchy – the one thing she and Rupert had stood for together; the only remaining legacy of their otherwise empty union.

And even Joseph, who had, in large part, despised the king for his infidelities and frequent indifference to the boys, had to admit that he had been a great and fair monarch; the love he had lacked where his wife and children were concerned, he'd certainly had in abundance for his country and its people.

"Sh…" he soothed again as one of his hands rubbed a soft circle on her back, "I understand…"

She knew he would – Joseph knew her better than she even knew herself. "He worked so hard to secure the monarchy," she spoke sadly, "and after Philippe…" she trailed off, "he did so much to locate Amelia, to ensure Genovia was safe … Now, because of my one stupid mistake, everything is …"

Pulling back slightly, Joseph looked into her tear-stained face, "everything," he continued the sentence for her, "will be alright." When he was sure he had her attention, he continued, "you are right: Rupert gave his life to Genovia. Whatever else could be said about him, that is indisputable. And for that very reason, I am certain that he would be the first to be glad that this", he emphasized, referring to the exhumation, "was the chosen course."

Clarisse did not immediately understand his words.

Sensing her confusion, Joseph continued, "he would want to see this matter resolved once and for all. You and I both know that it would have been resolved with just a strand of my hair …"

She felt a soft smile, filled with relief cover her features as she realized that he never doubted that he was the only man she'd ever been with besides Rupert.

He felt the corner of his own moth twitch in response as he continued, "this way is far more painful, but once it's all over and done with, there will be no doubt in anyone's mind that Mia is the rightful heir to the throne. Rupert would have been the first to be thankful for that."

He was right. She knew Rupert's number one concern had always been Genovia and its Monarchy. He would have wanted to see this matter resolved swiftly and efficiently.

Taking a deep, shuddered breath, Clarisse was, once again, immensely grateful for Joseph. No matter where they stood in their relationship, he always knew how to ease her fears and clear away the fog of despair beyond which she had no hope of seeing.

"Thank you," she whispered, her head slowly returning to his shoulder, turning as it went so her cheek lay against the dark fabric of his shirt.

It felt so wonderful to have her back in his arms. As she rested against him, Joseph found himself closing his eyes as his arms tightened around her in support.


Pierre, who had been silently standing by the door, took a step back as the two stood in their silent embrace.

He had not heard what had been said, nor did he know what their proximity meant, but he felt that, whatever it was, they deserved some privacy as they figured it out themselves.

Slowly pulling the door shut, Pierre made his way down the corridor hoping that, somehow, progress had been made.


After a few moments of silence, as the two stood there merely listening to the sound of the other's breathing, the words Clarisse had spoken when he'd first come to her began to echo in Joseph's mind.

'My one stupid mistake.'

It wasn't fair. Despite the situation between them, it was utterly unfair that she should carry the weight of their actions alone, and some part of him, a part that had been numb from the moment he'd read that newspaper in the hospital, felt ashamed at how he'd left her to fend for herself.

"Ours," he spoke softly, his eyes, like hers, still closed.

The subtle change in her breathing was the only sign that she had heard him.

"Our mistake," he spoke again. Yet his words didn't sit right; the uneasy feeling gnawing at him until he spoke the words he needed her to understand, "and it wasn't a mistake…"

He heard her breath hitch, and tightened his arms around her as she pressed her head into his chest.

"It wasn't," he repeated softly.

And he meant it. Over the past 43 years, if there was one emotion he'd never felt as he recalled their time together, it was regret. He could not regret it. Even now, knowing the pain that stemmed from that afternoon so long ago, he could not regret it. If anything, he was more thankful for it now than ever before. For years, the memory of those moments had served as a confirmation of the love he knew they shared but had vowed never to voice again. But now, now that he knew the truth, he realized that their one moment of un-restrained love had given him the only family he had. And as the memories of Pierre as a boisterous boy, a confused teenager, and a courageous man, prepared to give his life for his own flooded his mind, Joe knew that he could never regret the actions that had given him his son.

"No," he heard her soft whisper in agreement, "not a mistake. Just my own stupidity. I should have told you, I should have …" she trailed off once again, the words dying out as she shook her head against him.

Joe was not prepared to have that conversation. The wound was still too raw.

Surprisingly, however, the silence that fell around them was not uncomfortable. Slowly, Clarisse pulled her head back from his shoulder and turned to look around her surroundings once more.

Recognizing the worry still etched on her face, Joseph knew he had to give her some time. Taking a soft step back, his hands slowly slipping down her arms as she turned to look at him, he gave her an encouraging nod before bidding her a quiet farewell and leaving.

He did not know if his words had helped, but he hoped they had, even in some small way and that she would, now, be able to make peace with the memory of the friend she felt she had betrayed.

TBC


Ok, so, I'm not sure this read how I wanted it to, but I do like this chapter, and it does serve as a sort of turning point in their relationship. I'm not making it a point for Joe to go through all the stages of anger, but I also don't think it would be 'realistic' (as realistic as FF can be) if he suddenly turned around and everything was ok. So in case it didn't come out as clearly as I wanted, Joe is still angry, but he is slowly starting to look a little beyond himself and his own feelings.

I hope you enjoyed it, and I will write and post more ASAP (this brand new "college graduate slash" doctor [see what I did there?] is on holidays, so posts should come more frequently now).

Thanks,

CJS-DEPPendent

P.S. I'm on tumblr now. No idea what I'm doing, but if any of you are on there and want an extra follower, let me know (name is the same).