To Tell You I Love You by Beena-Pani

Disclaimer: Love Actually, Jamie, Aurelia, and the basic story, really, belongs to Richard Curtis.

Rating: PG for mild language and just to be on the safe side.

Pairing: Jamie/Aurelia

Summary: [Love Actually] The story of Aurelia and Jamie, uninterrupted and extended to its fullest. Brought to you by a true sucker for fluffy romance and Colin Firth.

Author's Note: I've only seen the movie once, so excuse me if I get the dialogue wrong. If I don't get it wrong, excuse me for not being very creative and simply stealing someone else's writing.

This is dedicated to my mom, whom I blame for this fanfiction entirely. It was her fault she read Bridget Jones' Diary, developed a crush on Mark Darcy that later evolved into a crush on Mr Darcy and Colin Firth. It is her fault she let me watch Pride and Prejudice and Bridget Jones' Diary, transferring the infectious disease that is Darcymania to me. It is the result of those crushes (for they are all the same person) and Darcymania that I saw Love Actually. And, to top it off, I saw it with her. So, thanks, Mom, for doing all that. As sarcastic as it may have sounded, I still love you for it.

~*~

Chapter One: Your Average Fool

Jamie

          The wind suddenly seemed so much colder against my cheeks as I shut the door behind me. She was the woman I had loved with all my being. How many times this morning only had I made her aware of that fact. I just couldn't understand it. How could such a perfect woman be so... imperfect? Perhaps she was too good to be true. What was I saying? Of course she was.

          I promised myself I wouldn't cry. But I did. Not full-powered sobs, perhaps, but there were tears that refused to stop making their presence known. My life depended on that woman. But, naturally, I was your average fool. That's just who I am, and that's who I always will be.

          It would make a good book, I thought ironically and smiled wryly, a grim chuckle escaping my lips. If one decides to be a writer, one must always think of their own misfortunes as a way of making profits.

          Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and produced my notebook. If one decides to become a writer, one must always jots down things like that.

          Oh, what the hell was I talking about? This was just my way of avoiding the subject of how pathetic I now seemed.

          I was allowed to forget about that miserable thought when I realized that all of my belongings were still in the house I shared with the former love of my life.

          Adding that to the Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list. That could be worried about later, not while I was depressed to the point of crying in public. The Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list was getting a bit long. So, what could I think of? The weather was awful, as per usual, though I didn't really care this morning. I had been in love. And, I hated to say it, but I still was. I caught her shagging my brother, for God's sake! And, for some reason, I was still as in love with her as I was this morning. I may have been a bit less happy, but I still loved her. She was doing it while I was at a wedding— a bloody wedding— and I still loved her! Was something wrong with my head?

          All right, the Things-I-Do-Not-Want-To- (And-Will-Not)-Think-Of list was getting a tad too long now. I'd have to get more paper if I wanted to continue it, but I didn't want to think of that, so I was forced to. Mental paper isn't hard to find, so I got myself a whole box just for this list, because I had a feeling I would need it.

          All of it.

          There is one place I can go, I thought, narrowly avoiding a subject on the list (where I couldn't go), and only avoiding it because it was a somewhat happy thought.

          I had gone there a few times over the last three years, usually after much influence from her. It seemed sort of funny at the time: she had pushed me into going there so many times, and now I was going there to get away from her. Okay, so it wasn't really funny, but, as I previously mentioned, I was feeling pretty pathetic.

          It was a nice little cottage in France that I was talking about. She had said it was romantic, as she packed our belongings without waiting for a protest. Maybe she had really loved me then; both of us had come. It wasn't like she was chasing me off so she could shag my brother.

          That was definitely on the list.

          I could stay there until Christmas. Then I'd get a real chance to write. After all, I could be alone. That was always good.

          Except at this particular moment.

          That was just so pathetic I stopped and turned around. I started walking back towards the place I had been trying to get so far away from.

          "What are you talking about?" she asked. I didn't look at her as I started packing.

          "You know what I'm talking about."

          "No, I don't. Please, Jamie, tell me what's going on..." She grabbed my hand, but I continued to look down.

          "You know." My eyes gradually wandered up to her face and I put on my best 'please-don't-make-me-say-it' face as I bit my lower lip. It seemed to work.

          "Oh."

          I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything at all. For once, I was grateful for the silence. It only lasted for a while, though, because she quickly broke it.

          "So, where are you going?"

          "You know," I said, even though she probably didn't. I had finished packing.

          As I went to turn the doorknob, walk out, and never come back, she caught me by the sleeve.

          "Jamie," she began. This time, I kept my eyes on the door. "I'm sorry." Those two words were so simple. For some reason, the way she said them, or maybe it was the words themselves that did it, I felt angry. It was the first time I had actually felt angry with her. I guessed this was a good time to start.

          I looked at her, this time without any recognisable expression.

          "So am I," I said, and it covered more than any goodbye could.

          She seemed surprised by this response. She opened and closed her mouth several times before letting go of my sleeve. Her grip had been loosening slowly the whole time.

          I didn't realize it would be that hard for her to let go of me. Figuratively, of course. I'm sure she wouldn't be very excited about hanging onto my shirt for another few hours. Maybe it was just an act. But what would she want to do that for? She had what she wanted. And now, I thought. So do I.

          I gave her a final smile, and it wasn't the sort people did when they were truly happy. You know, the one where all you have to do is look at their eyes and you just know that they're glad to see you. This was the kind where your eyes gave no effort and your mouth did all the work. It was better that way. I had to save my eyes for someone whose eyes would smile right back at me.

          And, oddly enough, that didn't take too long.