None of the characters herein belong to me. They are the property of Meg Cabot and Disney. I make no monetary gain from writing.

Author's note: something utterly unlikely but totally in line with the kind of dreadful angst I like. I love the line in the film and I think it's entertaining so here I've taken away all the comedic value and made it entirely grim. My deepest apologies. I hope you enjoy it. Please review it.

He doesn't know if they see it but when it does happen he is ashamed that he feels it so fully; to miss another's child as he does seems a treasonous act. No one knows how it felt to be underneath the car, slickened by pools of oil, holding him as he breathed his last. No one knows how it feels to love a child that is not yours. His daughter, smiling guilelessly in the back of the limousine, will never know how it feels to be Joseph.

"…Joey?"

She giggles.

Under tons of metal, he was just a boy. He thinks that is the worst injustice of all.

He remembers, with keenness, the first time he laid eyes on the young prince. Barely a teenager, he had been wandering the halls of the palace with a basketball in hand when Joseph had come across him on his first night in Genovia. He was the first of the Renaldis he ever met. They had shared a brief few words but from there on in had bonded over the American sport which both had come to adopt. Then it was every sport in the world from football to cricket, shooting to golf.

He remembers the summer day when they found themselves on the basketball court. It had been blazing hot and intending to leave for a holiday with the family on the coast, the king had been delayed by an issue surrounding the latest casino laws. Phillippe had stormed out in a temper, and he had gone after him, scooping up a ball as he went. He found him plucking aggressively at the roses in his mother's garden, stripping them of the petals the gardeners had been gently encouraging to bloom all summer.

"Don't do that, your highness," he had urged softly, watching as they fluttered to the grass at his feet.

"Don't tell me what to do Joseph," he had said quietly and while it was meant to be rude, it just sounded feeble.

He offered him the ball, "Let's play."

"So we're not leaving any time soon," the prince stood up, "Did my mama send you after me?"

He glanced sideways at the boy as he offered him the ball, he took it and began to bounce it along the gravel.

"No, Phillipe, she didn't," he said honestly, "Of course not."

"Then why do you care?"

Joseph caught the ball as he passed it to him, "I care about you Phillipe."

"Thank you," he looked at him, "I can tell you mean that."

He touched his shoulder lightly, "Of course I mean that."

He nudged him then, "Let's see who can score the most hoops?"

"Alright," the prince murmured, "Though you know I'll slam you."

"Sure, kid."

"I like when you call me that," he muttered shyly.

"Right," Joe smiled, "That's your name then."

He remembers the last day he picked him up from junior school in Genovia, before he was to go to England for his final years of schooling. Against all explicit rules he had smuggled him into his own favourite sports bar and while they drank coke and ate greasy burgers they had watched football and picked the game apart. They had hid in a booth in the corner, while Anton had sat at the table across the way and the proprietor – who was on first name terms with Joe – pretended not to notice the minor in his bar.

"I don't want to go to England," he had said through a mouthful of fries, "I really don't."

Joseph swiped the napkin across his mouth and put his burger down. Then he reached out and gripped the boy's shoulder.

"It's going to be alright," he promised, "You can come home every holiday. I'll come myself and pick you up. Your mama had already promised you that."

He took a large gulp of coke and both of their eyes were drawn to the screes as Real Madrid made their first goal. Joe, against his better attitude, let out a little growl of pleasure to which Phillippe laughed.

"Yeah but I hate the thought…at least Pierre will be there," he shrugged, "I just wish mama had-"

"What?"

"Had let me stay at home."

"It's better for you," Joe answered half-heartedly, "It'll help you become a better prince."

"What does it matter? I'm not going to be king."

Joe nodded, "But kid, you don't know that."

"I certainly do-"

He stopped midway as Juventus neared the goal but were deflected. They both released breaths of relief as the ball went back to the middle of the park.

"I mean, who's going to watch football with me?"

It was a half-joke.

"I'll phone you and we'll talk football," he smiled, "I promise. Do you want some ice cream?"

"Joey, do you want mama to fire you?"

"Listen kid," he laughed, "I've already lost my job with that burger. A sundae isn't going to tip the balance."

The prince smiled and picked up the menu.

He remembers the last time he fetched him from his schol overseas, a week before his eighteenth birthday. He was ready for a new adventure and prepared for what adult life was about to hand him or so they both thought. They had shared a bottle of champagne on the jet, and even though it wasn't strictly legal yet, Joseph had indulged him anyway. Phillippe had held up the glass and smiled indulgently, loving that Joe was still letting him break the rules.

"Thanks Joey," Phillippe smiled, clinking his glass against Joseph's, "This is a far cry from a burger and a coke."

"You're the only one I let call me that," he scowled, "And you're eighteen. It should be slightly more refined. I don't know why I let you call me Joey, by the way, I really hate it."

"Not even precious Pierre?"

Joe gave him a disapproving look, "Don't be so vitriolic about your brother."

"He won't be so precious when he tells them how he feels. That's going to be a beautiful catastrophe. It's just a matter of time."

Joseph, taking this simply as the typical spite that went on between the brothers, ignored it. Pierre did have his issues but it was, at that point, unthinkable to all of them that he'd eventually abdicate.

"Precious Pierre,"Phillippe repeated cruelly, then his face grew serious, "How is mama?"

Joseph considered the weightiness of his question, knew exactly what he was referring to, but remained silent.

"Is she alright?"

The young prince pressed on. Joseph felt a headache gather at the back of his eyes just with the reminder of the recent gossip that had surfaced, and made itself evidently true, in Genovia. A convoluted indecency involving the king's mistress and an unfortunate appointment of a chauffeur, who was too loose with his mouth, to the palace had been the axis on which three weeks of misery in the palace had spun. Clarisse had spent most of the time thundering about in fury, humiliated beyond all reason after the bribery and demands for silence did not work.

"Don't concern yourself with that," he said gently.

"Joseph," he looked out of the plane window, "Joseph I have to. It's my mother, they're my parents."

"And it's the business of adults that does not involve you," he said, more hotly than he intended.

Phillippe looked at him strangely, "Does it anger you?"

The turn in question took him by surprise. He looked over his glass at the prince as he sipped. Then silently nodded.

"It's the humiliation for her, for both of them," Phillippe said, shaking his head, "I'll never do anything to hurt my wife."

Joe nodded, remained quiet. He knew that couldn't be possibly true. The child, though he was good, was bound to a life of agony.

"You never say anything about it," he observed, "Not even to Pierre. He told me. Come on Joey, you can't say it isn't horrible?"

"There's nothing to say," Joseph answered quietly, aware that Lars was only a few seats away and being relatively new Joseph was tentative.

"You care about my mama, don't you?"

The question was provokingly intimate. He felt the tables turn on him in a way it never had between them. Typically he was the one asking the questions that were too personal.

"Of course I do Phillippe," he sighed.

Phillippe nodded, realising quite clearly that he had pushed the conversation to its limit. He reached for his glass and took a gulp.

"Are you coming to America with me?"

He shook his head, "I'm sending Lars."

"Staying with mama?"

Joseph nodded, reached for the bottle to pour some more.

"She'll need you," Phillippe murmured.

He hadn't wanted to tell her son that he needed her too. The thing that stuck most though was the smile of relief that traveled across the prince's face for a moment. Then he sat back.

"I'll miss you Joey. But hey, I am going on my big adventure," he smiled, "Lots of basketball."

"I know kid."

He remembers then, with a jolt, the horror he felt when discovering the little girl who had, with her birth, set in motion a chain of events which were as dreadful as they were tumultuous. As Jospeh stormed about the consulate in San Fransisco, Phillippe cradled her with such reverence, such defiant pride, that even in his anger Joseph didn't fail to see how much he loved her.

"Joseph you can't tell them," he had begged, handing the little girl over to her mother. When he did so, Joseph caught the glint of a silver wedding ring on her finger.

"Joey please!"

He had rounded on him then, "Do you know what this will do to your mother?"

The boy had blanched, backed away.

"Joe don't speak to me like that!"

"Like what?" He felt his cool disappearing completely, "Like you deserve? Married is bad enough but a child, a child Phillippe? What were you thinking?"

"I am your crown prince and you will not speak to me like that!"

At that moment the child let up a fantastic wail, not at all competing with her mother who was sobbing quietly as she watched the furious exchange. Joe clutched his fist together and resisted the urge to the hurl the vase on the table beside him.

"Joe, Joe I'm sorry," he cried, "That was low. I'm sorry Joe."

Protocol to hell, he slumped into the couch and gripped his head in his hands. He didn't know who to kill first when he had the chance; the security team he'd put in place in America that had so fulsomely harboured the prince's secret, or the prince himself, or the girl who was sobbing quietly in the corner. The only person not to blame was the little baby and she appeared to be the one he'd upset most.

Clarisse, the thought of Clarisse made him blanch.

"Joe, she's so beautiful," Phillippe whispered, "Just come and see her."

"I can't," he waved his hand, then looked up at him, "Who's going to tell your mother?"

He knew Philippe's wife – he didn't even know the woman's name – must be seriously concerned about how the prince's mother might react; after all, she seemed to be the primary concern of the Head of Security. He wanted to kick himself for making her the primary concern. Even though she was he shouldn't have been so vocal about it.

"I…I don't know," Phillipe went over to the woman and motioned her to come over. She came towards him, the baby still cradled to her chest.

"Joe, this is Helen and…and she's my wife."

"I figured that out," he snarled, then looked towards the woman, "Hello Helen."

"Hello Joe," her voice shook.

"Please forgive me for how I reacted. I didn't expect to turn up to check on the crown prince and find him…married with a child."

The words were still shocking. She just shook her head.

"Joe, please," the prince took the baby from his wife, "Look at her. You'll love her."

He sat down beside Joseph, revealing the pink little person hidden behind the white shawl. She had quieted now and was gurgling contentedly. She was her father's image; right down to her ears.

"This is Amelia," he was transformed into someone totally different, "And this Amelia, this is my Joey. I've already told her and Helen about you."

He couldn't help but feel a tender moment of love for the little lost prince. The burger-scoffing, basketball loving child he had grown to adore had become a father without any warning or ceremony and yet it was completely legitimate. He was enraptured by this little girl that he had just handed to Joe. She felt heavier than she should in his arms.

"What are we going to do kid?"

He felt himself losing the tether to his anger.

"What are we going to do kid?" He asked again.

When he didn't get an answer he turned his face from the baby to the prince – he found him in tears.

"I don't know Joey."

Now, in the present, he remembers the feel of him calling him Joey. The bond that had been forged accidentally being broken as he lay under the car. His leather-clad gloves gripped the steering wheel as the memory crashed into his conscious.

"I don't want to die Joey," he had whispered, "I don't think I can die."

But thinking and doing were very different things.

"It's okay kid, he promised, "It's going to be okay."

In the present he feels tears burning at the back of his throat. He clutches the steering wheel tighter as he guides the limo through the streets of San Francisco.

He tries to make it sound light-hearted but for all the attempt it becomes futile. She just giggles nervously. It's childish perhaps and it seems futile to cling onto a silly little nickname but he can't let it go. He can't be Joey, not even for her. He had thought when this day came it would be like having him all over again but it isn't. It feels like he's watching a shadow.

"No, Joe."

So, was it okay? Was it utterly miserable? Please review. Thank you for taking the time to read.