motion picture soundtrack — whitney & blaine. [ event 2 ]

“A drink, really?”

Well,

“If you insist!” He had never turned down a mimosas before, Blaine tried to recall his tabs on LeBlanc. Oh right, little miss Passion. Truthfully, he knew better than to go into it hating anybody, nor liking anybody, but he had to agree with a girl with a knack for alcohol. They each were chosen as characters- not as interns, he knew this. It was half his goddamn interview, the theory on how they were chosen past just work ethic and experience.

Blaine was a street fighter, a drunk, a liar, a waste of space- that was history, he combed his hair neatly before their meeting today. They were all people of interest, and there was no guessing what was under Whitney’s demeanor; god, this was already too much work. He tried to decide on the walk over if he truly cared enough to try and win or not. Arms looped together,

“Now if Malcolm doesn’t have Jameson, I’m suing!”

It could be nice to actually trust somebody here, after all. Blaine may not need friends, but he’s lying to say he doesn’t want them. Besides, it’s all small talk, next thing he knows Whitney could be a serial killer and Taupe could have a personality. And Fiora can actually see ghosts HAHA, next.

Blaine barely sits on the barstool before Whitney pulls the first file, “I don’t understand why they’re even hidden, when will I Spy be apart of our fuckin’ job resume?” He jokes, beginning to skim over the file tossed over to him — how hard could this be?

“Ehhh, I don’t think so? Rates are fine, the rig’s in a fine position, it’s a slower model but probably not our fuck up.” A shrug of a shoulder, tossing the liquor bottle’s cap and taking a swig, “it’s an excuse to come back to the bar at least, soooo, don’t forget it!”

Blaine notices that she doesn’t second guess him.

Blind faith, doesn’t check over it herself afterwards, he enjoys it. “Oh,” amusement plastered on his face with a neck roll, “spoken like a true day drinker, li’l lady.” And for a bottle of Chardonnay, held carefully as Whitney takes his other hand. In and out, he didn’t even break a sweat - things are so much faster when people trust him. He follows out Whitney through the door frame like he’s already drunk, nothing but smiles and wanderlust and, “hmm.”

Which room to go to next.

The other kids in the house seem to come and go around them, Poppy Rohan and Coralie (god, what. a. pair.) came through the bar even faster than them, and if it wasn’t for Poppy sharing a shit with him, Blaine would’ve regretted not hiding that file. Instead, he watches as his peers rummage through the Kitchen and Game Room, in and out- “the Sun Room? Maaaaybe?” He lingers, pointing a finger with the cock of his head. Blaine picks up the pace, “at least it has good lighting, right?”

What’s the worse that can happen! He cuts across the foyer with Whitney’s hand still in his, fast pacing into the sun room. Blaine leaves the Chardonnay on a woven table in favor of tearing this bitch to shreds with both hands, “we should probably pick up the pace some, or else we’ll get beat out by somebody like… Violet? God forbid.” He starts digging into the room head first, tossing pillows and cushions, he picked the Sun Room because nobody had been here, but also because it’d be an easy search. Part of her trusted him, part of Blaine wanted to impress.

It seemed that’s what he spent most of his time doing regardless.

“HA- manila has never looked so good,” Malcolm had zipped it away inside of the tackiest cushion, but regardless, they’ve got a sixth of a chance it's the right folder. “I guess I’ll let you check this one, darling,” he says with a smirk, walking back to his drink and slapping the folder on the same counter.

A little faith, he’d watch her as she reads, just to make sure they don’t skip anything.

"Really-? Ugh," he bit his tongue, "I fuckin' hate guessing games." 

It all just boils down to luck, the real challenge here should be if the intern could figure out a solution, not if they can hunt down some red herrings. Half the day's going to be spent on damn clue hunting, Blaine didn't understand that. The whole luck aspect, right place, right time, it didn't prove anything to find the file first, anyways. Maybe it's just the bitterness talking, but Blaine's never had the best of luck. Never really wanted to rely on it, on anything but himself. 

So it might just be luck in itself that he's put with Whitney, somebody focused and loose, dynamic. Interesting. Surface level fun, give it a week of psychoanalysis and we'll see what micro-issues Blaine can dig up about her. He wants to bet she's a sore loser, maybe easy to aggravate. Two files in, and they're both already frustrated, it'd be nice to have somebody else with a short temper to bitch with. "Sure thing, Whitney," he drew out her name awkwardly, unsure if it was too soon to shorten her name to Whit. 

Too many syllables, he chewed it over on the way to the kitchen, watching the hallways for anybody looking smug. He read over her shoulders too when they checked that folder, lingered on for a second to digest and make sure she didn't miss anything. It works fine, sigh. 

The kitchen went by fast, "oh, I'll check while you eat! I'm not hung-" cut off by a triumphant aha! 

His limp wrist got caught mid-motion, Whitney was quick on the draw. Which, fair, it was either the fridge, cabinets, or they'd have to knife-shank some island stool cushions open. "Hmm..." he took another sip from his bottle, rubbing the bags under his eye, "oh! Maybe?" Blaine furred his brows, placing his thumb onto the report, "there's complaints of upkeep here, the hydropnuemonics are slow to pump but uhh, I don't see how that would be a red flag unit issue?" 

Hmm. "Here," he checked over his shoulder before grabbing srircha sauce from the fridge and obscuring the lines of the report. "If it's the one, we'll come back and remember, and anybody else will just be shit out of luck," it was no secret, Blaine hated losing. "Deal?" A smug smile, just some friendly competition! 

"They'll keep up if they want to!"