As you read along, you might guess that I had hopes of posting this in time for Valentine's Day. For some reason, I didn't make it - I probably had some idea that was going to require major editing - although reading over it again recently, I thought, "Eh, looks good to me." So here it, complete with an epilogue. If you're a glass-half-empty sort of person, it's a bit late. If you're a glass-half-full type (and, procrastinator that I am, I find that latter philosophy to be much more comforting), it's nice and early...for next year.

I do not own Princess Diaries, although unfairly, it seems to own me.

Thanks for reading!

The head of royal security was on the phone to the Queen's personal assistant the moment Joe was out of earshot.

"Yes."

Just one simple word, but Lord, how he loved that smoky, sultry voice.

"You sound beautiful first thing in the morning."

"You're starting early today."

"Just an observation, Margaret. I have a very professional reason for calling you."

"Then perhaps you'd better hurry up and share it. I need to get to Her Majesty's office, and you're not the first phone call I've received."

For completely illogical reasons, jealousy knotted David's stomach and made his tone sharper than he'd intended. "Who else called you?"

He heard her chuckle softly, and he mentally kicked himself. "Relax, David. You're the only one foolish enough to ask me out – and to keep asking."

"I was only curious. Making conversation."

"I had a phone call from Her Majesty."

"How is she?"

"How do you think?"

"I'm guessing not so chipper."

"You guess correctly." There was a pause, and Margaret's voice was devoid of all traces of even the driest humor. "Are you in your office?"

"Safely ensconced behind my desk with the door firmly shut."

"It isn't pretty." There was nothing suggestive of complaint in her comment. The Queen was in pain, though it would likely manifest itself in a short temper and snappy retorts, and no one was more protective of Her Majesty than Margaret.

"I wonder which stings more: Rupert's girl in the library or Joe's looming date night."

"Hard to say, though I'm betting the first thing makes the second all the more difficult to bear."

"Do they even know…?"

"Does who know what?" The warning to proceed with caution was unmistakable in Margaret's voice.

She had striking good looks, nerves of steel, and a quiet power that pervaded her signature grace. Quite a few men didn't know whether to be in love with her or to be in awe of her. Not David. He was both.

But he was brave, too. He took a deep breath and pressed on.

"You know what I mean. I've always assumed Joe and the Queen must have come to some understanding with respect to their feelings for one another, but is it actually possible they don't know?"

"There isn't really much point in knowing. What would they do about it?"

"I suppose, but I was sure he would have given up trying by now. His forays into the dating scene are already few and far between."

"He can't have her. Why shouldn't he have a normal love life? Or at least, the semblance of one?"

"You know as well as I do, his attempts at relationships don't do anything but make him miserable."

"Maybe he likes to be miserable." Margaret was nothing if not pragmatic.

"I don't like him to be miserable. Not when he has such a hard time keeping the misery to himself."

"You're being selfish."

"So what if I am? And even you can't deny that the timing of this particular attempt is especially awful."

"It isn't Joseph's fault. How was he to know she'd walk in on His Majesty and that little whore of a countess?" Margaret's voice was even, if a little brusque, but David knew sympathy and unwavering loyalty to her Queen surged just below the surface of her words.

"I don't know. Just going by the odds –"

"Alright, enough from you. If you called to gossip, I won't have it."

"I was calling to tell you that Joe is stomping around with his own personal thundercloud hovering over him."

"Lovely."

"Yes, two fronts about to collide –"

" – to produce the perfect storm. You know, David, I might need a drink later."

"I might need one sooner rather than later. I don't suppose we could commiserate."

"On Valentine's Day? Not a chance in hell."

"Honestly? You won't have a drink with me because it happens to be Valentine's Day?"

"I have my principles, David."

"What if I promise to not enjoy it?"

"You're grasping at straws. You know how I feel about desperation."

"What if I say, 'The hell with you,' and slam the receiver down?"

"Then I might see you at seven."

Margaret startled at the sound of a violent disconnect, then smiled into the phone as it hummed a dial tone.

Someone had managed to keep it out of the papers, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be fodder for the palace gossip mill. For once, Clarisse didn't care. Let them talk. Let them speculate. Let Rupert grovel. She didn't care about any auburn-haired dalliance.

Her bodyguard had a date tonight. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't help feeling utterly betrayed. Better to let everyone think she was upset about Rupert's indiscretion than to know she was miserable at the prospect of Joseph going on a date.

As if he weren't allowed. As if he didn't deserve to find someone who made him happy.

It was just that he was her friend, her companion, her confidante. She needed him today.

But he doesn't need you, said a nasty little voice from some dark corner of her mind, and her stomach flip-flopped, threatening to reject her breakfast of half a piece of toast and a hasty cup of tea.

She straightened up in her chair and surveyed her desk. It was full, but orderly, reflecting none of the chaos that heaved inside her at the moment. In the outer office was Margaret, unflinching in the face of her cool demeanor and brittle patience. She wasn't being fair, she knew, but it was the only thing keeping her from dissolving into tears. Even better would be to nurse the fury the likes of which could only be wielded by a woman scorned.

Twice scorned. By two different men. One who had never learned to know any better, and one who had no idea she had dreamed of him every night for the past ten years.

Not that Joseph's knowing would change anything. Rupert made his choices and she made hers.

She sighed, already exhausted from bearing up under the weight of her sorrow and anger.

"You didn't wait for me."

She lifted her head slowly, pretending she was absorbed by the document in her hand. Truthfully, she didn't even know what she was holding.

"Good morning, Joseph."

He stepped into the room and – lovely. He closed the door. She sighed again, already nearing her breaking point. The only reason he could have for closing the door was –

"I want to talk with you."

"Joseph, not now." He was like Margaret, only more intense. While Margaret felt Clarisse's pain as her own, Joseph felt the insult – and took it personally. One look at him was enough to see that his steady demeanor only just contained a seething rage.

"Please. I know about what happened last night."

"Who doesn't know what happened last night?" She spoke as crossly as possible, hoping her hurt was well concealed. It probably was, but not from him.

"I know you have a busy day, but if you need to get away for a bit –"

"I don't have time for it. And it's not as though I'm not used to it."

"Still, I –" His jaw clenched, and she felt a pang. He would never dare speak against the King, even if it took all his will to refrain. But she knew he always had her back. She was going to be far too hard on him today, and she hated herself for it.

"Anyway, you have plans of your own." She dropped the document and reached for her planner. "Should be nice for you."

His eyes narrowed as he tried to analyze her tone. Then he gave a short, dark laugh. "Yes, very nice. Coerced into a date with someone I have absolutely no interest in."

"Oh?" She tried to sound nonchalant as her heart leapt for joy. "How ever did that happen?"

"That friend I told you about? The one who's always trying to set me up with his flashy sister. He and his wife invited me to dinner this evening, but they had to cancel. 'Joe,'" he intoned with mock anguish, "'we've already asked Rafaela to come along, and we haven't the heart to tell her it's cancelled. Can't you still meet her?'"

"You must be interested. Or at least mildly curious. Why else would you submit to that sort of blackmail?"

His expression hardened slightly, no doubt to hide his own pain. She knew she had the power to hurt him. She was sure she was doing it now. They were always each other's source of sympathy, but today she wanted no part of it, wasn't accepting it and wasn't doling it out.

"I was trying to be a gentleman. Besides, I thought if perhaps I went along with it, I could say I'd tried, and they might leave me alone from now on." He stepped toward her desk. "Clarisse."

He was trying one more time. It was the crossroads in their conversation.

"What do you want, Joseph?"

He blinked, stunned not so much by her words as by her coldness. "Nothing," he said finally. "Will you be here for a while?"

"Yes." She was sifting through a particularly tall stack of papers at the corner of her desk, and feigning a sense of productivity that would not allow her to spare him even a glance.

"Then perhaps I'll see if I'm needed elsewhere."

"If you like."

He left.

She dropped everything and leaned back in her chair and fought the urge to weep.

It was the day that wouldn't die.

At 8:30, Clarisse found herself alone in her suite, desperate for something to do. She was too keyed up for bed. Her mind was too chatty for a novel. Her eyes were too tired for needlepoint. There was nothing good on TV.

If Joseph were here, they would intentionally pick an appalling program and make fun of it.

She had apologized to Margaret, who, being a solidly wonderful person, had asked her why she was apologizing. Soon after, Clarisse learned Margaret had plans to go out with David. She reminded herself that Margaret was one of life's true delights and deserved a relaxed evening. Even more, the besotted David deserved an evening with Margaret. So she tried not to hold their happiness against them, and was disgusted with herself over how difficult that was to do.

For the sake of her own peace of mind, she had accepted Rupert's apology, such as it was. She hadn't wanted to, especially when he had shown up later in the afternoon with something as trite as a box of chocolates. She'd asked him if they were poisoned, and his crestfallen look had taken the satisfaction out of her bitterness. What point was there in harboring a grudge against a man who honestly didn't know how to be a husband?

She took the chocolates. They were nougat-filled. Every last one. She hated nougat.

Joseph knew she hated nougat.

She hadn't seen Joseph. He had not come back. She thought of calling him, but figured she owed him some space, then reasoned after a certain time that he was probably getting ready for his date.

She looked at the clock for the hundredth time that evening and resumed her dating calculations.

Assuming his date was to begin at 7:00, he probably would have left the palace at 6:45. No, this was Joseph. He would be concerned about being punctual. So, 6:30 then. If this woman were an early person, they might have gone into the restaurant to start their date before 7:00. However, this being Valentine's Day, there would be a lot of people out and about. It might take them awhile to be seated. Unless they had reservations.

So she was going to say 7:00. Eating by 7:30. Talking and so on. That could reasonably bring them up to 8:30, but it was likely they would leave the restaurant soon.

She had no dating experience as an adult. Hell, she hadn't dated as a teenager either. She assumed that once people were of a certain age, sex was a given, especially in a situation like this, where the young woman's personality was not enough of a reason for him to want to spend time with her. She did not know how long the modern, middle-aged couple took to move through the niceties to reach the bedroom. She couldn't go by her husband, whom she imagined used his position as king of an entire country as a pass to skip the formalities with women who were the right combination of willing and star-struck.

The minutes ticked by. At 9:00, she was standing in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed as she watched the crossword puzzle from the newspaper burn - Who had come up with the cute idea to make the puzzle heart-shaped? – when she heard a knock on her door.

"Come in."

The door opened and closed quietly. She didn't need to look up from the ashes of newsprint to know it was Joseph.

"You're back early." She hoped she sounded calm, and not as though she had just been estimating that he should be off somewhere, rounding second base some time in the next five minutes.

"Not really."

"Oh. Was it an early dinner?"

"No. We were supposed to meet at 8:00. I drove over to the restaurant, turned around, and drove back."

"Oh." She looked up at him finally. He was wearing a black button-down shirt with a black tie and black slacks, not unlike his usual attire, but slightly dressier. He was very handsome. She wondered if Rafaela lamented the loss of his company. "What did…what's her name again?" she asked, feigning memory loss.

"Rafaela."

"That's right. How could I forget. Such a lovely name. Was she disappointed?"

"I don't know. I didn't talk to her."

Now she turned fully to face him. Her face was flushed from the heat of the flames, and her arms tightened across her chest against the cold she felt the moment she distanced herself from the roaring fire.

"I stood her up."

"You what?"

"Stood. Her. Up."

"You can't be serious! Why would you do such a thing?"

"I didn't want to be with her. I wanted to be here."

"Your soul is as black as your wardrobe."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But life is too short to endure unpleasant people. And I hardly doubt she'll be suffering my loss for long."

"What makes you so certain?"

"She was interested in me more for who I know than for who I am."

"I suppose you mean me?"

"It happens."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Clarisse walked to the sideboard. "As long as you're here, you might as well join me. What would you prefer: wine or whiskey?"

"You."

She whirled around only to find him staring at her unabashedly. "What was that?"

"I said whiskey."

"You did not."

"What did I say then?" he challenged, his eyes darkening dangerously.

"You said…whiskey."

"Told you."

She turned back to the sideboard and poured the drinks while he made himself comfortable on the sofa, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. She walked to the sofa and lowered herself onto the cushion next to him. He reached for one of the glasses, but she pulled them both back.

"First, we must establish why we're drinking."

"I'm drinking because you offered me a drink. Why are you drinking?"

"To get drunk."

He grinned. "I can help you with that."

It was entirely inappropriate, of course, but she couldn't help it. He was smiling, and she felt a weight lift from her chest. Already, she could breathe more easily.

"I'm sure I can manage on my own."

They clinked their glasses and each took a sip.

"Out of curiosity," he said after a few moments and a few sips had gone by, "what reasons were not acceptable?"

"I'm not sure."

"You are, you just don't want to tell me."

"It doesn't matter. You already gave the right answer."

"Thank heavens for that."

They settled back against the couch, and he noticed the large, heart-shaped box on the coffee table. "Who gave you that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Rupert."

"That was…nice. I suppose. A bit weak, but it's the thought that counts."

"He should hope so. They're all nougat."

"Does he know you at all?"

"He knows I like strawberry. And they're strawberry nougat."

"Why not chocolate-covered strawberries?"

"I don't know, but perhaps from now on, he can have you buy the 'I'm sorry' gifts."

"Gladly. Are they all the same?"

"Except the one in the middle. I poked a hole in the bottom of each one just to be sure. The one in the middle has a ruby ring in it."

"Good thing you weren't checking the fillings by biting them."

"There's the silver lining I was looking for. Thank you, Joseph."

"A toast to silver linings?"

"I would, but I'm out." She held up her empty glass.

"Allow me."

"So kind of you."

She waited until he was next to her again. Eyeing her glass critically – he was more generous with the servings than she was – she started talking again.

"I would not have accepted 'drinking to make things pleasanter' or 'drinking to justify making bad life choices.'"

He laughed softly. "Then I am lucky. I almost said the one about bad life choices."

"Did you?"

"No. I actually have no idea what you mean."

"Did you think about seeing her anyway?"

"I did. But I didn't want to."

"Has there been…? I mean, have you…?" Damn whiskey. She glared into her glass, swirling its contents as she thought about how to back out of the question she had started to ask.

"Have I what?"

"Do you get lonely?" she asked.

"No. I have a very good friend. She happens to be a queen though, so sometimes it's complicated."

"She didn't treat you very well today."

"She was rather hurt today, I suspect by more things than I was willing to recognize."

She looked up at him. He was studying her intently, but tenderly. "You should have gone. She might not have been all bad."

"I've seen her picture and have heard the stories. Believe me, she's got no shortage of men buying her drinks tonight."

"You could have been the one buying her drinks."

"I could have been the one tonight. I'm too old for that, Clarisse."

"Not so old."

"Old enough to know better. Besides, I'd rather be drinking with you."

She smiled wryly. "So you threw over the fun girl to sit here sedately with someone who is not your girlfriend, not your wife, not your lover…"

"But she is my friend. And a surprisingly impressive drinking partner."

"I just wanted to be miserable today. I wanted you to be miserable with me. I am sorry."

"I already was miserable. If I hadn't been wallowing in it, I might have seen past your rather weak attempts to push me away. So I'm sorry, too."

Their glasses were empty again for quite some time, and were sitting on the box of chocolates that turned out to be a rather handy coaster, before they spoke again.

He cleared his throat to indicate he was introducing a sticky topic. "Were you – earlier – trying to ascertain how long it had been since… Well, since I'd…been with…?" he asked vaguely. She knew what he meant though.

"Yes, I suppose." They were close, and had talked in depth about a great many things over the years, but this was uncharted territory.

"You don't want to know."

"Because it's been that long, or because it's been that recently?"

"That long."

"Long by…whose standards?"

He chuckled. "By anyone's." He watched her carefully. "And you?"

"The first one."

"I thought so."

She laughed for the first time all day. "Well, you would have a fair idea as you do keep tabs on me."

He smiled as a reply, but seemed lost in thought. "Are you still determined to be miserable?"

"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's a rather lofty goal."

"Clarisse."

"Yes," she responded, not sure if she was asking a question or answering one.

"If we ended the night in bed together, it wouldn't be such a bad thing."

The shock from his words came from a place so deep within her, she had ample time to compose her face before it reached the surface. "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"It would wreak havoc on our professional relationship, and would have the potential to destroy our friendship. Both outcomes would be in keeping with our attempt to be miserable."

"True. But it sounds as though you're using alcohol to rationalize, and that's another wrong answer to the drinking question."

"It would be," he said with a crooked smile, "except that I'm still fairly sober."

"I must not be very sober because you're making good sense to me."

He stared at her, uncertain. She leaned over and kissed him, driving away all doubt from his mind.

He wrapped his arms around her back and she slid her arms around his neck and for the first time in recent memory, the world was as it should be.

It was wrong. Neither of them were trying to deny it, and somehow that made even more acceptable. They could enjoy tonight because they would regret it tomorrow.

He pulled her even closer, until she was practically on his lap, and they lost themselves in each other. It was the perfect ending to a wretched day. Or at least, it was, until –

"Clarisse," Joseph murmured against her mouth. "I love you."

"What?" She had drawn back as if she'd been burned, and he was staring at her, still lost in a haze of passion and trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. "Why did you say that? Why on earth did you have to say that?"

"Why? What did I –" Suddenly, he realized. "Oh…"

"This won't work if you love me. Love will leave us hopeful and give this some sort of redeeming value. If you love me, this isn't an act of misery."

"You're right. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I'm not as sober as I thought I was."

"You love me? That ruins everything."

"I know. It was a stupid thing to say. What if I told you I didn't mean it?"

"Did you?"

"Well, I did at the time…"

"Joseph."

"Alright, I meant it. I mean it. I love you."

They slumped back into their respective cushions, regret pressing heavily down on them.

"I suppose I might as well say it, too, since it doesn't matter anymore."

"What's that?"

"I love you, too, Joseph."

He reached across the space between them and took her hand in his, and despite the gloom that had enveloped them again, they smiled. He tugged on her hand so she leaned into him, and she tucked her head under his neck.

"Did you know my assistant was going out with your boss this evening?"

"Everyone knows. He tried to play it cool most of the morning, but by afternoon he gave it up and was whistling romantic show tunes."

"I wonder if they're faring better than we are."

"Oh, I don't know. We're a pretty despairing pair at the moment. I don't think they could possibly top this."

"Rafaela?"

"She's a sparkly, curvy little thing, I imagine she's got her pick of any number of eligible bachelors."

"That's too bad."

"Mm," he agreed.

"Probably safe to assume that Rupert is doing pretty well for himself."

"Actually, I heard he is holed up in his suite, trying desperately to be good."

"Will miracles never cease."

He chuckled. "What do we do now?"

"I suppose we'll have to lock away our feelings and all the dreary hopefulness that comes along with them, and send you on your way."

"I figured as much."

Neither of them made an effort to move from their cozy position.

"Back to your apartment," she clarified. "Alone."

"Frustrated."

"Yes. That, too."

They sighed in unison before letting their thoughts ramble. At length, he picked up her hand and kissed her fingers.

"At least, we didn't have to spend the holiday alone."

"There you go again. Another silver lining. I do appreciate them."

"I hope I'm not going overboard. Clouds are so much more apropos when one is feeling desolate."

"No, no. It's just the right amount of hope, glimmering just out of reach." She turned her head to burrow into him a little more, and inhaled the warm scent above the pulse point in his neck. She felt his grip on her hand tighten.

"Did you know that when we're both in a bad mood, there's a procedure in place to alert everyone on my staff?"

"I did not know that."

"I overheard a maid asking one of the security guards for an update. It rather irked me earlier when I found out."

"I can see why. On the other hand, it's rather clever, and if it operates efficiently, it probably spares us run-ins with quite a few annoying people."

"I did think of that later. You deserved a better day than this. I wish you'd had a better date than…what was her name again?"

"Roberta."

"Right." She paused at that, not quite sure it was right. "Anyway, you should have had a better date than Roberta."

"I did." She felt him smile. "In fact, my evening ended up so much better than I could have imagined, that I think we should do this every year."

"It has all the markings of a fine tradition in the making."

"I agree. What better way to spend Valentine's Day than wallowing in self-pity and despair?"

"Wallowing in self-pity and despair with a great friend?" she posited.

"Exactly." She felt his chest rumble with silent laughter under her cheek. "What are you going to do with the candy?"

"I don't know. Leave it outside David's door with a note from Margaret maybe."

"With little holes poked in every one of them."

"Yes, except the middle one. I might as well keep that one."

"Well, he did try."

"True. I'm feeling charitable enough to give him that much."

"Clarisse?"

"Yes."

"Will it spoil the mood if I say it one more time?"

"I hate to admit it, but I was rather hoping you would."

"I love you, Clarisse."

"I love you, Joseph."

An epilogue follows, just for a little extra fun...