notverywise | (no subject)

There are days when Jenny doesn't know how she ever managed to like it here. She'd say as much, anyway, though the logic still makes sense. (Of course she would have liked it. The island is exotic, beautiful, about as far from Twickenham as it's possible to get, and it isn't as if she came from a particularly good time.) It's just that, while there are times it's easier to ignore the size and limitations of this place in favor of focusing on the atmosphere, there are likewise times when the exact opposite is true, when everything feels as stifling as it did back home, when she was still just a schoolgirl, before everything turned on its head. Here as well, there's nowhere to go and nothing to do, and no way of trying to put back together the pieces of the life she left behind. In that way, it's worse than home.

Were it not for the fact that half the things on the island are apparently bloody magic (and she'll never understand that, she thinks, not in a million years, not even if it fascinated her initially), it might not be an issue at all. As it is, though, this particular day, the jukebox and bookshelf seem to both be conspiring against her, the former singing you've got me wrapped around your little finger at her as the latter is at once filled with innumerable copies of Jane Eyre upon her approach. It's more than she cares to deal with, more than she has the patience for.

She heads out of the Compound after that, in the hopes that some fresh air will do her good. Anything, really, to get away from the notion that something here knows her, knows about the life she hasn't seen fit to describe in detail to anyone. It isn't supposed to matter here, and yet it follows her around anyway; the best she can do is try to put some distance between it and herself. Not caring enough to walk all the way out to the beach, she seats herself instead on the Compound steps, concrete warm under her palms and the backs of her legs, head tipped back slightly and eyes half-closed as she draws in a deep breath. It's far better than being inside, but it leaves her distracted, so much that she almost doesn't notice someone walking up. "Hello," she says absently, when she finally registers movement, probably a few moments later than should otherwise be the case. She lowers her chin slightly, then, just a touch more serious. "I'm not in your way, am I?"

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It comes as a surprise, the slight weight of her head on his shoulder, and Cameron is hard-pressed to ignore the instinctive temptation to rest his against hers in turn. On his part, the gesture might come across too much as a romantic one, although that would hardly be his intent and is, he's sure, not hers. His head is in too much of a spin these days for him to think of romance, especially in a place he's set on leaving as soon as possible, though she's undeniably beautiful.

He keeps her where she is, not shying away from her, not trying to move closer or take advantage of the moment. He ought to suggest they sit, but he doesn't want her to think he's trying to pull away. "I thought you could use a little of both," he says instead, head turning slightly toward hers so that all he can see is dark hair.

It's ridiculously unfair, Jenny thinks. If she didn't know better, she'd wonder if all of this was somehow planned, mad as the mere idea is when they've known each other for maybe an hour at most; she ought to be more careful anyway, but that isn't her primary concern. What she doesn't understand is how he knows all these right things to say, on top of being just about anyone's definition of perfect. Somewhere, there has to be a flaw, some horrible thing that will make him totally unappealing if and when she ever finds out about it. For now, she has to bite her tongue to keep from asking if he could actually even be human.

"I could," she says, soft, grateful. She wouldn't have thought of it herself like that, but it's true and probably has been for a while, there's no doubt about it. Sooner more likely than later, it will lose its novelty, become just another aspect of this place, but in the moment, it's lovely, and so is her present company. "Are we staying for a bit? It's not like there's anywhere to be, is there?"

"I haven't got anywhere else to go," Cameron offers, stepping slowly back, hand moving to her elbow. It's a strange feeling, if he's honest, knowing he has nowhere to be, nothing he's meant to be doing — no classes, no studies, no practice, no races, no home life, nothing whatsoever to tie him down to any given moment. It could be freeing. For him, it feels the opposite. There's something claustrophobic about all that open uncertainty, the lack of direction. "We could sit a while, stay. If you like."

She's the one who suggested it, in essence, but still, he doesn't like to presume, even as he heads over to find a clear spot in the grass below a tree. By the water is always the best place to be, he figures, and not even because of his natural bias, the fact he spends — or used to spend — most of his waking hours on the river. It's just cooler here, next to running water, beneath the shade, and they could both use the respite.

"I would, yes," Jenny says with a slight nod, clearly pleased with the response. Really, there's just no reason not to, and with that being the case, she's content to let this last for as long as possible, fairly certain that it's the best she's felt since arriving here. That lack of obligation helps, too, though that isn't always so; there are days she imagines Oxford and the education she'd have gotten to have there, all of it just out of her grasp, and wants nothing more than another chance, the emptiness here only exacerbating it. For the moment, it just leaves her clear-headed, something that she suspects has to do with the distraction of someone to keep her company, even if they're quiet about it. She follows along easily, all warmth and mostly hidden self-consciousness, still taking in everything as she does. It really is a beautiful spot, cooler and secluded, quiet but not eerily silent the way some of the corners of the Compound are. "I'm glad you brought me here."

The thing about the stream is, it's not near wide enough to row in. Cameron knows that makes him strange, that this is what he thinks of, but it's worth considering; he's been without practice for a while now, except in a very makeshift way, and it's dissatisfying. He misses it, unfathomable though that may be to some people, the sense of being a part of something joined to the tranquility of making his own way.

She says that, though, and when he smiles back at her, it's genuine. "Me, too," he says. She's virtually a stranger, but maybe that's part of the appeal — she's just a sweet, charming young girl with no real idea what any of it means, what he's dying to go back to or done wrong, what's waiting for him when he gets back. He's not the kind for denial, but there's something precious about being able to step away from it all for a little while, if only when it comes to conversation. "And glad I met you. It's not nearly as nice here without good company."

"It's not nearly as nice anywhere without good company," Jenny points out, her own way of agreeing. What really matters is that it's applicable here, that it's one of the first times she's been able to say so at all. There are a few other acquaintances she has whom she's become fond of, but this is somehow different in how he's gone out of his way, made her feel a little less out of place. (Really, it reminds her from the beginning, but she's deliberately not thinking about that; she may not know Cameron, but she likes to think she knows enough to tell that he isn't like that, not at all.) Regardless of what she keeps to herself, that's something she could thrive on, if anything meaning all the more for those things she hasn't said. That she's glad she met him, too, at this point, she's pretty sure goes without needing to be outright mentioned, evident as it is in the way she looks at him. It might just be the best thing that's happened to her since she showed up here, though to be fair, there's little there to compare to. "I don't imagine this would be an exception."