Participants:
| Scene Title | More Direct |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Devon calls both Brennan and Graeme to the motel room he's staying in, and not so minorly freaks out about what to do next. |
| Date | May 18, 2011 |
A motel room
Two calls went out early this morning, nearly early enough to be indecently timed, yet late enough that people should be awake. Devon is certainly awake, for he's the one that made the calls. First to Graeme and then to Brennan, his tone cracked with anxiety, giving them each the motel address he'd stayed at the previous night and nearly begging them to come over.
The door to the room had been blocked open with the fold over latch, a tiny crack spilling light from the hall into the dimmer single room interior. The teenager had taken some advice, a few supplies meant for cleaning left on the small worktable, some non-perishable food sitting untouched, a handgun. That wasn't part of the necessities, but it is something Devon's known to be carrying. The bed hasn't been slept in, it hasn't even been sat on. But the chair belonging to table is moved from use. A newspaper rests on the chair, laptop opened to another news page and paused during one televised article.
Devon himself is within the room, pacing and peering out the window by turns. One arm is clasped over his chest, the hand tucked under the opposing side. The other hand rests near his cheek, fingers occasionally tapping against the scar that cuts from temple to nose when it isn't twitching aside the black out drapes for a glance through the window.
Graeme knocks on the door, quietly. The earliness of the hour prompted him to drive over rather than anything else, and so he's arrived rather quickly, bearing a large bag with breakfast food picked up along the way. Even if Devon isn't hungry or refuses, Graeme hadn't had breakfast and skipping meals isn't something he's about to make a habit of doing.
"Devon?" The query is tentative, and the teacher pulls the thin sweater, three tones darker than the blue of his teeshirt and nearly matching the faded denim of his jeans, a bit more about his shoulders. Despite the spring rain and the chill weather that comes with it, Graeme's simply doing that thing of refusing to care about the weather and not letting it register on his awareness. "I brought breakfast."
Turning his head to look over his shoulder at the sound of the knock, Devon stares like he hadn't expected the sound. His eyes flick to the gun resting on the table, though Graeme's voice coming through keeps him from retrieving the weapon. He crosses the room in three quick steps and pulls open the door just wide enough for the teacher to come inside, then releases it to bang back against the lock without latching.
"I… Sorry for calling so early," Devon says as he turns away from the door. He waves vaguely at the table, if Graeme would like a place to sit and eat. "It's… I don't know about all this. I…" His eyes slant toward the laptop and then to the floor. A hand drags through his hair. "I don't… I'm not sure if I can find any answers."
Brennan has children, and they take time to get up, get going, a wife to see off and while they have help with the children, the two of them are very much hands on. Nanny's come in the morning, then go home before dinner. That's how it is in the Brennan Household unless it's a date night or some other exception.
Which would be why Brennan wasn't here sooner. City traffic to beat, phonecalls to make to work to re-arrange his schedule, but eventually, not long in Graeme's wake is Brennan, no coffee or donuts or breakfast goods. He catches the door close, from down the way and not long after Graeme has entered, there's a quick rapping of knuckles on the door by the short shorn, scruff jawed physician.
The bag of food is deposited on the table, and then Graeme glances towards the door again, eyebrows raised. Devon hadn't mentioned that someone else was coming, and Graeme's posture tenses slightly, perhaps noticeable. "It's alright about the early, honest. I'm up anyway, I don't sleep much, remember?" The southwestern drawl carries, perhaps to the door, perhaps not. "I can't stay overly long, I need to be at work at eleven, but until then." There's a shrug.
"Yeah," Devon answers as his head swivels to confront the knocking at the door again. He remembers, but somewhere it got lost in translation. "I… Okay." He glances toward the red numbered clock beside the bed, but the time shown is irrelevant as his feet return him to the door. It's pulled open to reveal Brennan on the other side, but not even a grin is offered to the man.
"Doctor Brennan," the teen announces, moving aside just enough for the new arrival to step inside. Then, the door is allowed closed all the way, the latch flipped to further secure it. "Sorry," is offered the same as it was to Graeme. "It's early… I'm sorry. It's… That virus…"
"Devon." And… "Graeme?" As if he's not quite sure that the other man is really there. He didn't recognize the voice, it's not like he'd seen the man outside of the clinic. But there he is. "I'm late, I had to help with the kids till the nannies showed up. I know about Studio K." He'd called the CDC on it during Devon's visit and after but hadn't gone down.
Brennan steps in, letting the door close behind him, offering a hand out to Graeme to shake. "Dr. Brennan, but I think you remember that, hows your arm?"
"Morning, doc," Graeme says by way of greeting. "Yeah. It's alright, been doing well." The handshake is accepted, firm, no longer with his non-dominant hand as it had been when it was closer to the injuries. "There's breakfast, have you had? There's more than enough." Graeme gestures to the half-unpacked containers of food and the paper plates on the table.
Letting the two older men go through pleasantries of greeting each other, Devon's moved back toward the window. Both arms fold over his chest as his back goes to press against the drape covered glass, eyes flicking from Doctor to teacher and then to the laptop. The paused image now hidden behind a screensaver of stars. "Not just that… It's… What do I do? What… I mean, the vaccine…" It's something he hadn't brought up to Brennan, the last time he'd spoken. But then, that development hadn't even been known to the teenager until just a couple of days ago.
"I don't have much of an appetite right now, but thank you." The urgent sounding message from Devon combined with the topic that he's brought up, it's not exactly hunger inducing. His hand back, Brennan sinks them into the pockets of his slacks, pursing his lips thin, breathing in reedily through his nose. "There's nothing you can do Devon. The strains are mutating faster than anyone could ever have imagined, crossed over a genetic barrier that was never imagined that it would and if it did, would take years to do so."
He finds the low dresser in the room, leaning/sitting on the edge so he can shift his arms to cross them over his chest.
"They'll work on one, regardless, with the hopes that should the strain crop up again in the future, they'll be ready, or be able to help base another vaccine for another strain that's mutated from it, off of it. But much like with the previous and current strains, all that the medical community can do at this point is limit exposure, and to provide the medical care and management of symptoms to the infected and hope that their bodies are strong enough to endure and survive."
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Graeme's helped himself to a container of oatmeal with sausage, and he eats, grim faced and silent while he listens to Brennan. "Right." He looks at Devon, and then simply falls silent, waiting for the teenager to speak. This isn't anywhere near the teacher's area of knowledge, in any case.
"No," Devon says, head shaking almost violently at Brennan's assumption. "No. I… there's someone… She wants my help in bringing it to the public's eye." He glances toward Graeme as if only realizing he hadn't been there for the entire conversation just a couple of days ago. Vexed, he presses his hands to the sides of his head. "Not years. Not even months! She can fu… it can be done in hours. Or less." And he's waffling.
The teenager slides down the wall to sit on the floor, head dropping back against the wall. "And I can't… there's not time to find out what her motives are. Ninety percent or more mortality rate." His eyes come up slightly, looking between Graeme and Brennan. Likely wondering if calling either of them was the right choice. "What do I do?"
"Who's the person?" Brennan remains where he is, looking down at the teenager with no small amount of concern when he's spilling the beans about knowing someone who can cure this new plague and in hours no less. "And what do you mean by bring it to the public eye Devon, why isn't she going to the CDC or just… going to a hospital and offering up her services. Even if she went to the cops, they could get her to where she needed and she could do her wo- Is she registered?" It occurs to him that maybe the woman isn't registered, and that's why.
This knowledge, at least, is something Graeme knows, and can fill in the details. "Her name is Dr. Elvira Blite," he says. "And I by and large don't trust her intentions, I have no clue what the limits of her ability are, what she can do, and well … I've met her twice, and I didn't like her when I met her." There's a pause. "And I'm not sure that wanting to bring it to the public eye is the best thing as far as her intentions go. It doesn't mesh well, to me. But we need that vaccine," he admits. And he doesn't know the answer to the question, so he's skipping over that part.
"I don't know," Devon all but whines. His head drops between his shoulders, hands coming up to rest against the back of it. "She came to me, asked me to bring it to Mister Russo to expose the development on his show. It's… something to do with her ability and… Shit I don't know what to do about it." Obviously, they need the vaccine. "I don't know what her angle is. I don't know at what cost this'll go to. I don't… I'm not sure I can find anything out if we want to save the population… keep it from spreading to the rest of the world. If the game can continue after I've agreed and… hope that something reveals after?"
"Dr. Elvira Blite's ability is listed as Weakness detection and is one of my employees at the Suresh Center. A scientist. If she can cure this within hours…" Why had she not done this already. Brennan's gone from worried for Devon, to tensing up, already broad shoulders squaring, concern transitions to angry as he pushes away from the dresser to squat down in front of Devon, reach out to lay his hands on the shoulders of the teenager.
"Tell me everything Devon. Because to the best of my knowledge, her ability has nothing to do with Viruses. Her job does, but not her ability." To the best of his knowledge. But he's known people to lie about their abilities before. So either she's telling Devon a yarn, or she's told the registry a yarn. Or the institute knows and covered it up. There could be many reasons.
Graeme looks over at Brennan. "Then what the registry has her ability listed as is wrong," Graeme says, pensive, leaving his breakfast aside on the table in order to go and lean on the dresser for a bit. "From when I met her, it wouldn't truly surprise me that she'd done something like that. She seemed to think she was definitively more important than anyone or anything else."
Devon's head comes up slightly, enough to look at Brennan then slip past to Graeme. "It's… not a whole truth. Not as she explained it. She sees weaknesses in the body, but those weaknesses are viruses. And illness." His eyes go back to the doctor, then drop to the floor again. "She can …She knows how viruses work. She can look and… she said it wasn't known in registration, but she gains complete knowledge of the virus. She… she knows how to make the vaccine and can do it. Can make it."
"Scientists tend to be… eccentric. At least those that I have come across. Their grasp on the world as a whole tends to be skewed. A habit of their work I think since their focus in on their trials or project at hand." Brennan relays to Graeme, not an attempt to mollify or play down that particular woman's eccentricities.
He lets go of one shoulder, rubbing his hand across his jaw, rewarded with the raspy sound of his palm against stubble, the hamster wheels in his brain turning as he thinks and churns over what to do. He knows the woman is Institute, and therefore they'd know about her ability. He could understand the manipulation in laying out of her ability when it came to registration.
"Fuck."
It's not something he tends to say. You curb your language when you have small kids at home. He pulls away from Brennan, using his legs to push himself up, run a hand across the velvet that is his hair, pacing to one end of the room then back. "I need to deal with her. This is unacceptable, and I'll have her head on a platter for this." He's positively fuming but at least Graeme's not being negated. Tight control on that. "Do you want me to handle this? I don't know why she wants to go on television, this is ridiculous, but I can deal with her, and we'll see to getting her to Studio K to take care of Ms. Reynolds and getting this… vaccine, or whatever she claims she can do, done."
Things are ticking away in Graeme's mind. "She can detect viruses. What else can she do with them?" He's thinking back to the news reports of the winter that was in fact caused by an Evolved ability, but it's only ticking away. "Part of her ability is probably touch-linked, or something."
"I know media, I know people's motives and such, and I don't have a clue as to why she wants to go on television except maybe to set herself up as some sort of saviour or something," he adds. "Which would assume that there's something she's trying to cover for in the first place."
"I've already got that handled," Devon says with a wince. He may have already told too many people as it is, but inexperience in these situations has driven her to reveal far more than he'd usually. "Fuck. No. Just… If she finds out, I may be as good as dead. The whole… non-evolved population… She may decide not to make the vaccine." It's a viable concern, though he'd rather hand it over to someone else. His head tilts back again, rapping against the wall with a thud.
"Graeme's right." Devon look thuds his head against the wall again. "She's… there's something that's too …I don't know. It doesn't sit right. But… I've already got an in with her. I …it's risky but I could… It might give us some knowledge. I just… Do I agree to it now? People are going to die, but… Her motives…"
"She's gone to a teenager. She's putting a lot of weight on your shoulders, that she should never have done. If she wanted to make a big production of it, of having been the savior to the city and those afflicted, there were other ways to go about it. The Commonwealth Institute would have happily plugged it that she is their employee and that she and they, came up with it. I don't know what her game is, but if what she's claiming is true, then she's been sitting on this for a bit. Means she's already been in contact with… the Arthur Kills outbreak, and who knows what else. Let me talk to her first," Brennan says. "Please Devon. You can do, what you want, bring her to Russo, do what you please, but if she has this vaccine, or a means to help people already, then she needs to be doing instead of pimping and primping on the television. She can do that after."
"Or she doesn't want the Institute to get credit for it," Graeme suggests, head tilted to one side. "But I don't think that plain and out not playing along with her is the right idea either. God damn it." This is something he'll have to bring up to Liz later, as to what should be done, but that's neither here nor there. "She wants to be saviour herself."
"I've been the one sitting on it," Devon points out. "She told me… Sunday. We met for lunch and she presented the idea. Fuck, why didn't I agree then?" His head drops forward again, hands lacing over the back of his neck. "I'll… I'll agree to it. To …getting her to start the vaccine. Or to make it." Doubt lingers in his tone, questioning if it's the right move or if he's just signed his death warrant. "Just… Doctor Brennan, please keep an eye on her. Or an ear… I… it's bigger than you think."
Devon's eyes slant toward Graeme, having likewise thoughts to contacting Liz. He hadn't, wanting to keep her exposure to a minimum after the last week. But the message now can get to her. His focus lingers on the teacher just long enough to meet the man's gaze before flicking toward Brennan again. "I… I don't know what she wants, but… she doesn't want her supervisors having it. I am… I hope to know why. I… Shit… Is it too soon to invite her out to dinner again?" With a soft groan wrapping around another choice word, the teenager scrubs his hands over his face, eyes squeezing closed.
Didn't want her supervisors to have it. Didn't want her supervisors to have it. There could be a myriad of reasons why, and not all of them good, filtering through Brennan's mind. "She's being evasive, and I don't know why. It's unethical what she's doing, when she has solution but is refusing to put it into action and thereby holding the population hostage for some reason. That she doesn't want her supervisors to have it is bullshit Devon. There's the CDC, there's the NIH, there's plenty of people that she could go to, that won't involve the Suresh Center or the Commonwealth Institute. She could have come to me. This goes beyond eccentricities." Something is just not jiving with this in Brennan's mind.
Brennan heads for the door, resting his hand on the doorknob. "Arrange the lunch, let Graeme and I know when, we'll see if we can't attend. I'm going to go find her and see what she has to say to someone who isn't sixteen and is her boss. See if she spins the same story. Don't tell her that we'll be attending."
"And if she kills me for letting you in on her secret," Devon calls after Brennan. His head comes up, trouble of a far deeper magnitude than just the threat to himself writ across his expression. "Or if she goes after what little family I've managed to scrape together?" His voice cracks at the end, his greatest fear, losing family again. He'd wanted advice, help in dealing with the situation, not a witch hunt that could turn around and bite him in the ass.
"It's not just lunch it's…" Devon grasps for an explanation without revealing too much more that could worsen the situation. It was hard enough approaching Liz and Graeme with questions of accepting an acting gig, pretending to court Doctor Blite. "Fuck. Why the…" Frustrated, he kicks a foot out harshly, sending the chair crashing into the table and then falling to the floor. He draws his foot back again, this time striking the table hard enough to threaten the life of the laptop and the food perched upon it.
Brennan leans back a fraction, before kneeling down again, a hand to Devon's shoulder and squeezing. "I have dealt with going on the run for two months with a teenager, when someone nigh unto omniscient threatened to kill my family, you endured the Dome, Devon, with me. You know and saw went on in there. If you are going to let some eccentric skinny pretentious scientist get the better of you and make you afraid, then maybe you have bigger problems than her. If you're afraid for yourself, and your family, then you bring them to my home and I'll get them set up in my basement. or I know people, who can help to shuffle them somewhere safe, off the grid and untraceable. People that Dr. Blite and anyone else who might have their hand in her pot, don't even know about. Do you understand me Devon?"
Graeme looks after Brennan. It's the sort of look trying to nonverbally communicate 'please don't go yet'. Because while Graeme can deal with Devon, it would be easier if Brennan stayed around, and there's an equally small look conveying his relief, and then Graeme takes a few steps over, placing his own hand carefully on Devon's shoulder. "For one, doc here's," and from Graeme, the term is a mention of respect for Brennan rather than anything else, "not going to let her know he learned from you. He's just going to see what she says in the first place," Graeme says.
"The Dome was different," Devon protests, regardless of the fallacy behind his own statement. His memories of events there prove that both are very similar in their level of threat. "I can't let… Doctor Blite can't know about those people at home." He hasn't even divulged who his family is, though nearly everyone that knows him knows that his last living guardian was killed when the Dome was created. "She can't know that I told you about this. She might… not just my family, but everyone else too. Everyone who's going to get sick could die because…"
Pulling away from the grips on his shoulders, Devon stands. "I gotta go. I… I can't…" He looks back at Graeme and then Brennan, one hand slapping the laptop closed. "I can't… if you talk to her this… she can't know I told you." It's important enough, he repeats it again. Turning away again, the teenager picks up the handgun, pushing the slide back to check the chamber. Seeming satisfied with whatever he sees, it's tucked into the waist of his pants, shirt pulled over to conceal it.
"It's different, in that you're feeling directly threatened, as opposed to seeing it happening, all around you." He lets the teen do what he needs to do to feel safe, even if it's what he's sure is an illegal gun being carried concealed. "She's my employee Devon, I have a right to know what she's doing. Keep tabs on her. I will be talking to her but I'll keep your name out of it. You go, where you have to, but you're welcome to show up at my door, or at the clinic, I'm sure Graeme will take you in if you need to, and if you want, I can make contact with some people that I know, to ensure your safety."
Regardless. "We'll get through this, we'll figure it out, even if I have to stake my career on it. Devon, you need to trust us."
"You know where the bookstore is, too, Devon. Even if I'm not there, or Aric's not, you can always show up there as well," Graeme says, reinforcing what Brennan's said. A furrow of concern is on his face. "And where my apartment is, and how to reach me." And if it comes to the worst possible, he can always take the kid to the Endgame safehouse, though that's not the first thing that crosses his mind.
His eyes follow the gun, but there's no move to stop the kid from doing that. On the other hand, neither does Graeme move out of Devon's path, as he's currently between Devon and the door. "Devon. Before you go, you need to calm down a little. You do what you need to do … but I'd feel better about it if I knew where you were going."
The laptop is swept off the table and a backpack produced from that low sitting dresser. "What do I do in the meantime," Devon asks, stuffing the laptop into the pack. A couple of extra shirts follow, no ceremony given to the packing. "What if she figures it out? What if…" The unreasonable fear, though bitten off from further comment, lingers. The couple of non perishables are stuffed in with the shirts, then the zipper is pulled to seal it off.
"What do I need to do," the teen asks as the pack is pulled up onto his shoulder. "I agree to what she wants and the Institute — no offense, Doctor Brennan — might decide to focus that eye on me?! I can't let any of that get home! I just… I don't know. I don't know where I'm going, but here…" With grunt, he shoves the table again, rattling it roughly against the wall.
"I'm a member of the Institute Devon. They'll have to go through me first." Likely a unknown thing to Graeme, this physician who works at a family clinic and the Suresh Center. "They won't." He reaches over, grabbing Devon by the shoulders, pulling him in close, protective hug followed by hands on either side of the teenagers face. "You need to trust us Devon. I know, that it's a really hard thing given what you have been through, and what you are currently going through. You are doing the right thing, you are not alone, and we are here to help you. You need to trust us, that we will help you, and we will get you through this and see that if there is indeed a vaccine, that we will get it distributed to the best of our abilities and then, then we'll concentrate on getting you your job back, do you understand?"
A bit of a gentle shake. "So what you need to do, is let us help you. Let me talk to her, you set up that lunch, ask the questions that you need to ask. If she tries anything funny, I will negate her ass to hell and back, so that she can't do a single thing, if it's anywhere remotely near what Graeme has mused. But we will not abandon you. Do you hear? So calm down, I need you to calm down for me. You going off half cocked won't solve anything."
Unknown or not, the fact that Brennan is a member of the Institute doesn't seem to shake Graeme. At least, not visibly. There's still the fact that Graeme knows Cardinal thought well of the man, and that several other people he trusts do as well, and so, Graeme stands back, letting Brennan do the reassurance. And perhaps the fact that the doctor has expressed that he'll be in the way should it go in that direction serves as further reassurance for the teacher.
But he's there, a solid presence once again leaning against the dresser, not confidence per say, but merely unshakeable, steady. "The doc's right. The mean time isn't something you get to get all hyped up about, and neither of us are going to let you be alone in this." Graeme takes a few steps, and there's an attempt to gently pry the bag out of Devon's hand and set it back down.
The hug is meant with tensing, so much that a tremble actually runs through the teenager's frame. But the boy who leveled a rifle at Humanis First, who stared over the barrel of a pistol unflinching, can't keep the fear of his family's safety from his expression. And it's that look, not the cool, collected one that meets the doctor's gaze. The pack is easily removed, Devon's eyes flicking toward the teacher and then back again. He draws in an unsteady breath, shuddering slightly, and draws a hand to scrub over his face.
He sags back a step, coming to half lean against that dresser again. His head lowers, hands catching his forehead as arms rest against his legs. "Just keep it from finding its way back to my family," he asks quietly. "Just… Please… I can't… I don't…" He can't lose his family again, and he can't keep them safe alone.
"Everything we can Devon. Everything I can." Brennan murmurs, releasing the teenager, all the confidence that he can muster reflected back.
"I will," Graeme reaffirms, stepping over and gently rubbing the teenager's shoulder with one hand. "You know I will. Everything I possibly can." Though it means that first, Graeme's going to have to find a time to talk to his boss about all of this, bring her up to speed. "Have you talked to your sister yet?" The question is gentle, tentative, asked after a moment of hesitation. But it's something Graeme needs to know.
"No," Devon groans against his hands. "No. I… She hasn't answered her phone. I haven't seen her since I left to meet with Doctor Blite Sunday morning." That, in itself is troubling enough to spike the teenager's anxieties all over again. "I left voicemail but… Because of the flu I haven't gone home." Pressing his palms together and steepling his index fingers, his head comes up a little to press his lips against his fingers. "I haven't heard back and …I don't think going home is safe just now."
"Who's your sister? I can try and pull some strings and see if she can't be found, bring her some place safe if you want it done," Brennan offers, sticking near the door for now, but glancing down to his phone, see if he's missed any messages.
Graeme shakes his head to Brennan. "I work for her now, I'm working as a bouncer again." There's a half shrug, although Graeme will let Devon divulge Melissa's identity — or not, up to the teenager and definitely not the teacher-turned-bouncer's call to make in this case. "So I'll see if she's not around somewhere. I don't see her every night I'm at work, but I'll make sure to find her. I'm not supposed to go in tonight, but I'll go see if I can. And if not tonight, tomorrow for certain, as soon as I can get a hold of her." Even if she hasn't been answering her phone for Devon. Graeme will try as hard as he can to get ahold of Melissa. Then Graeme's wrapped his arm around the teenagers shoulders, a sort of sideways hug of reassurance.
"Melissa Pierce," Devon fills in, nodding to Graeme's words. "Sort of… She decided. Or… It just kind've happened. She and Perry are what I got left." Not entirely true, and a somewhat guilty, apprehensive look goes toward Graeme and then Brennan, as though realizing he's got more friends than originally realized. "I told them problems wouldn't follow me back to them."
"Pierce is a big girl, she can handle herself." And that would explain why she's talked to him about going to Brennan. "We'll do what we can to help you, and right now, it seems, I need to touch base with some of my employees in my lab and see what they have been up to." Like Yana. "Call, anytime, if you need anything. You can trust Michelle too, so if you don't get me, call her, or Graeme, or… go to Pierce."
Graeme nods. "C'mon, Devon. You'll come with me to work today, I'm teaching that English class. Though you're going to have to leave the gun, school's got a metal detector." There's not that much room for choice left in the teacher's words, and then he gets up, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and producing a card to hand to Brennan. "Keep me updated, doc? There are a few more pieces to this puzzle that I'm going to put together, would help if we make sure we all stay on the same page with regards to gameplan."
"She's sorry about…" Devon lets a shrug fill in the rest, his eyes flicking to Brennan. He gives a nod to Graeme and picks up his pack again. The gun is drawn, the magazine dropped and chamber cleared with an ease that shows he's gone through the motions countless times. All are placed into the front pouch of his pack and zippered in, one strap then sliding up onto his shoulder. "I'll be in touch," he says, eyes ticking up to Brennan. "…But I'm not staying here. I'll… work it out… and… I'll let you know." Or someone will.
"Sounds good to me, Devon." The not staying there part. The she's sorry about part, he lets it drift off into the air. Apologies need to come from the people, not from the proxies and surrogate family. "Get going with Graeme before he's late to work. I need to get to the clinic and do some re-arranging."
Alright. Not staying here, Graeme can work with, and the gun can be left in the car when they do get to the school. "We'll stay at the apartment tonight and figure out more tomorrow," Graeme says, reassurance to Brennan that he's not going to let the volatile teenager stay alone for too long. "And yeah. Let's get going. There'll be a little more time needed to sign you in on a visitor's pass before I start, so we should do that." Graeme picks up the bag with the uneaten food, because it'll just become his lunch, or he'll eat it (very carefully as to not spill) in the car.
There's a half faint smile offered to Devon as Graeme sweeps his gaze over the motel room to make sure nothing is being left behind. "We'll go check out of here, and then we'll go over to school. And you can see what I get to deal with on a daily basis." A pause. There's a reminding little nagging voice at the edge of his brain that he has to go actually see Brennan at some point soon, but it's pushed aside as something to do when things settle down, some. "Seeya, doc."