[ Jim raises an eyebrow as he unloads the items from his bag: cans of Illy Issimo, packets of instant brew coffee, and a single, sweating, very beat up half-gallon of milk. He doesn't bother with putting them away in the fridge—that would be too responsible—but instead snaps the tab off a can, and saunters over to the couch, swinging over the back to land with a thump across from Bones. The couch wheezes in protest under him, but Ikea couches are built to last. Like Soviet Bloc furniture. ]

We were out of milk, and I don't like my mini-wheats with soy.

[ he has no idea why mini-wheats taste so damn good, they just do. He amuses himself with his drink for a moment, wiping the condensation off on the fabric and taking a long-ass sip, before turning his attention fully back to Bones ]

Don't tell me you're dreaming of the next ebola outbreak, because last time I looked [ at photos on your ipad ]? Nightmares for weeks.

[ joking about a very serious disease is obviously a great segue into the actual topic, which he jumps to with a far more serious tone. ]

But if work's putting you on the edge? I want you to quit.