Jim stares at him, then abruptly tosses back the rest of his glass. He puts it down on the table, ice cubes clinking against each other.

"Is it that soon? How long do you have? Months?"

He's building to an eruption, and he doesn't want to erupt, and he fucking needs this information. He needs all of it. He has to know. How fucking dare Bones think that this was okay to keep to himself?