restless heart — whitney oneshots.

o c e a n   e y e s.

She won't admit it later, but her first instinct is to eavesdrop.

She meanders through the halls of the mansion quickly, the twists and turns already familiar enough that making her way to the door to Malcolm's study is nothing more than muscle memory. When she sees that his door is closed though, she can feel her heart skip a beat, and before she can think twice about it, she's pressing her ear up against the door instead of giving a gentle knock against the wood.

She stays like that for a beat, too long, long enough that she'll be ashamed of it later, but electricity dances down her spine and she knows that if given the chance at a do-over she'd probably do it again.

She can't hear anything though, so she leans back and gives the wood a quick rap.

"Enter," Malcolm calls from inside, so Whitney pushes the door open and steps over the threshold without a look back.

She knows what she's here for, knows even better why she's here in the broader explanation of the situation. She knows that she isn't here for the same reasons as the others, that she doubts Malcolm Nox ever saw her as anything other than a pawn to push his other candidates forward.

She knows.

And so does he.

So instead of addressing what they both know is coming, Whitney lets chooses to dance. She doesn't smile at him when she enters, just lets her eyes look him up and down as best she can while he sits on that throne behind his desk. "Hi Malcolm," she says, pushing the door closed behind her until she hears the latch catch in its home. She doesn't sit in the chair that is so clearly meant for his guests, doesn't play into the role that he's designed. Instead, she lets her eyes wander, walks over to the painting hanging on the wall and stands in front of it.

He doesn't break the silence, just watches her watching his world. This is his life, his competition, and that means she's playing by his rules, which means she'll be the first one to speak.

"Are you an art lover?" she asks, only mildly surprised that she hasn't gotten the chance to ask him before this moment. She isn't looking at him, has her eyes trained on the painting hanging on his wall, her eyes tracing every brushstroke, thinking about the artist who must have put brush to canvas. 

"I suppose you could say that."

"I am," she replies, though she knows that he already more than knows that. "I like that it always belongs to the eye of the beholder." She quirks her mouth into a smile, and finally turns to look at Nox over her shoulder. "Of course, that's also the worst thing about it. You never really know the piece, not unless the artist tells you what was in their head at the time." She thinks that he's probably not going to connect the dots, that she might have to spell out exactly what she means when she goes on, but she'll have to speak to see. She turns back to look at the painting one more time. "Adrien is like that," she says, eyes narrowed at the canvas. "Like art. He's beautiful, but unknowable."

She turns to look at Malcolm head on.

"Leaders don't need to be knowable to be successful, but they need to make people feel like they know them. He'll never be able to do that, not when he's so clearly hiding something."

Her eyebrow doesn't arch like she thinks Poppy's might have, and her expression doesn't have the same kind of haughtiness that's hard fought for and well won. She still thinks, maybe, that she looks powerful.

"I mean, I don't even know his last name."

o c e a n   e y e s.

Malcolm narrows his eyes at her.

The weight of his gaze is heavy.

Whitney keeps her spine straight.

"That's quite an allegation to level," he replies, voice unreadable, but she thinks she might hear a hint of anger at her words. He leans forward in his chair, rests his forearms on the edge of his big desk, eyes hard on her. "Certainly I brought him on for a reason. Are you saying I was wrong to have done?"

The threat in his voice is subtle, like the edge of a blade in the dark.

"No," she says quickly, hoping he doesn't hear the fear creeping into her own voice. Her heart is thudding in her chest, so loudly that she can hear the blood rushing past her ears, deafening. "He's resilient," she goes on, swallowing. "He had good potential, I'd bet. That's an admirable quality, resilience, but also makes me think that he'd rather go down swinging than admit defeat, hence the running the company into the ground."

Malcolm seems placated, and she exhales quietly, feeling that tingle spread down her spine again.

"Very well, Ms. LeBlanc. Let's hear your final choice then."

She squares her shoulders again, and finally moves to sit down in the chair across the desk from Malcolm. She leans back in the chair, crossing her legs at the knees, a formal position despite the fact that she's wearing a pair of jeans with paint splatted all down the front, despite the way she knows her hair must be in a state of absolute disarray from tugging it out of the messy bun she'd had atop her head.

She considers for a moment, look into his eyes, and then leans forward instead, props her elbows on the edge of his desk and rests her chin in her palms.

"Who do you think I'm going to say?"

"It's not my assignment."

"But it is to read all of us," she says in quick reply, eyes bright. "C'mon, it can't be a hard guess, after last month."

Malcolm levels his eyes at her, and Whitney has absolutely no idea if he's going to indulge her for a moment, but she's always had this effect on others, always been too playful to not be indulged. Even her mother, who had hated everything about her second daughter, could not deny that there was an addictive effervescence. Whitney might be going home, might be the person named most often tonight, but she'll willing to bet Malcolm might just be sad to see her go.

"Please?" she asks. "It's always good to know how predictable you are."

He finally cracks another small smile.

"Until last month I'd have expected you to name Ms. Delphine, but given your attachment to Ms. Rohan, I'd put good money on your final choice being Ms. Rossum."

Whitney's answering smile is broad, and it isn't bright, but rather quiet. Subtle, as unknowable as the very boy she had first tried to condemn. The mention of Poppy has made Whitney realize she needs to be more careful, that she should take the lessons Poppy had been trying to quietly teach her for months now more seriously.

"You're the one who said our relationships with one another are reflective of our relationships with other businesses," she says, tossing his own words back at him, the very ones that had made Whitney know immediately who her first name would be. "Amrin probably won't win, I actually kind of doubt that she will, though she certainly wants it," she goes on, knowing the words are painful because they are honest. "But there are people here with far more faith in her ability than I have, and I don't think anyone would say the same for Coralie." She wants to bite the inside of her cheek, wants to look away and out the window behind Malcolm. She wants to hide from her conviction, terrified that he might not agree. "You said you try and stay on the good side of those who would tear you down, but Coralie does no such thing, just tries to tear the other down in turn. That's no way to lead."

"I just ends with both in flames."

"And what's the point of owning ash?"

The answer is clear, hovering between them.

There isn't one.

Malcolm leans back in his chair once more, lacing his fingers in front of him again. His eyes are still unreadable, but Whitney thinks she's learning what the light behind them looks like.

"Very well, Ms. LeBlanc. You've given your three names. Will that be all then?"

"For tonight."