Inside Out.

Jim Gordon had never been prone to panic. He'd be first to admit he did have a temper, and was to known to loose it from time to time, but he did not panic, not unless the circumstances were most dire, and by that, he mostly meant madmen holding guns to the heads of his family.

And the surge of fear he felt now was sudden, and made even worse by the fact that it followed and denied the relief he felt when Batman flew out of the building, seemingly right before the explosion. And maybe it was right before, but one of the shards of wood, or metal, had got to him, because the next thing Jim knew, the dark shape was spiraling down, and falling hard, raising a cloud of dust from the ground.

Jim had been wishing for backup just ten minutes ago, but now he thanks god or anyone up there who may be listening that there's no one else around. He makes his way to Batman, kneeling next to him, rolling him to the side to check for the injuries. His heart sinks at the punctured suit and blood seeping out; in this light, all moving shadows brought by the fire from the explosion, against the dark leather and kevlar, he can't really tell how big the loss is, but it doesn't look good.

He considers his choices, the few of them he has, each worse than the other. He can hear the sirens in the distance, and knows that the fire department, and the police, will be here soon, and the sounds that used to be a relief now spur him into action.

He lifts the Batman, along with the steel rod sticking out of his side, and carries him to the car, short distance, but he's breathing harshly when he makes it, the added weight of the man and the suit is a tad too much. Or he just should work out more, he thinks absently, trying to calm down. Batman mutters something, and he has a rather feverish look already. Moving him was probably a bad idea, but the alternatives were worse. Not like he could just wait for the ambulance.

The road home seems to stretch endlessly, even though he probably breaks a dozen of traffic laws. He thinks of putting up the siren, but that would only draw attention, and that he prefers to avoid, considering his passenger. Jim glances worriedly at the backseat and the man stretched there, cowled head rolled to the side, eyes closed, lips tightly set. He looks like he's having a nightmare, eyelids twitching restlessly. Once they reach Jim's house, he can take a moment longer with getting Batman inside, not having to flee the scene, he moves carefully, trying not to worsen the injury. If he hadn't already, of course.

"Just hang in there," he says, and clumsily gets them both to the bedroom, laying Batman on the bed, hoping as hell that he'll be able to remove the chest piece somehow, without getting electrocuted. Hopefully this extends only to the mask. He's lucky, apparently, even though maneuvering the piece of armour around the piece of steel feels like playing that operation game he hated as a child.

He fumbles for his cellphone, numbers blurring as he tugs his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly, watching Batman shift and groan. "Sheldon?" he asks, and doesn't bother with the apology for calling the good doctor in the middle of the night. Knowing him, all Jim interrupts is work. "I need you to walk me through a medical procedure."

"Where are you?" Sheldon asks immediately, and Jim knows he's going to offer to come over, and honestly, he's really tempted to agree.

"I don't want you to get involved with this. Just tell me what to do," he says, and explains the situation as well as he can, glasses back on, peering closely at the wound. He might be panicking.

Afterwards, the wound bandaged as well as he could manage under the circumstances, he walks to the bathroom and washes his hands of blood. For a few seconds, he doesn't recognise the man in the mirror, but that might just be the fog on his glasses. Sighing, he walks to the kitchen and finds the bottle of scotch, hidden somewhere behind stale cocoa. It's been in his possession for the last three years, and it's not even half emptied, the last time he had actually opened it, it was in celebration of his divorce.

He pours some of the liquid into a glass, filling maybe a quarter of it, and turns the glass in his hand, watching the liquid splash against the sides. When he wakes up in the morning, his fingers are still closed around it, and none of the liquid spilled, which he considers quite an achievement. He pours it back into the bottle, emptying it into the sink would be a great waste of an excellent scotch.

After replacing it in the cabinet, he walks into the bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible, but the Bat is already awake, tugging at his bandages, looking as if he had already gone through the stage of panic upon waking up, passed bewilderment and confusion, and arrived at annoyance.

"Morning," Jim says, and nods in the general direction of the injury. "Don't poke at it, or it won't heal," he offers, and this, he thinks, must be what loosing your mind feels like, because admonishing Batman like he did Jimmy when he fell off his bike and scraped his knees or elbows... It's kind of amusing, but only a very special kind of.

"Gordon," Batman offers in a manner of greeting, or maybe reassuring himself of what he had already figured out. It couldn't have been a great puzzle, with all the pictures on the walls and the night stand. "How bad is it?"

"Considering that you're mostly coherent and able to sit up, I'd say it's not bad," Jim shrugs, and walks up closer, sitting in the chair next to the bed. "May I?" he asks, waving his hand lightly, and there's only a moment of hesitation before Batman nods, and Jim slowly works to ease the bandage off to take a look at the wound. It doesn't look infected, which was what he had feared the most, and it doesn't seem as dangerous as it did yesterday, but that much he could have expected.

Batman is watching him, gaze flicking from his hands through his face, and Jim doesn't even have to look up to get the question loud and clear. "You know, getting your suit off without removing the mask wasn't that easy. You might look into that, for the future reference," he offers, and finishes putting the bandages back on, still looking only at the task at hand.

"Thank you," Batman says, quietly enough that Jim has to strain to hear it.

"Less work than trying to get you out of jail," Jim shrugs, pretending to misunderstand, knowing that Batman won't call him on it. Indeed, he gets another curt nod, and then the man shifts uncomfortably, as if to get off the bed. "Don't even try," Jim says, hand on Batman's shoulder, gently pressing to steady him. It gets him a defiant look, and really, he used to get those from his kids too, getting one from Batman of all people is... disconcerting. "Apart from the obvious fact that you shouldn't move yet, which I'm sure wouldn't stop you... it's daylight."

Batman looks at him for a very long moment, then glances at the window, grimacing. Jim doesn't like it very much either, to be honest, but he also knows he does have a point. Batman walking down this street in broad daylight? Granted to give some of his neighbours heart attacks, and then bring even more trouble when the news get out.

"House arrest, commissioner?" Batman asks, and it takes Jim a few seconds before he actually realises the Bat is joking and laughs, shaking his head.

"Until the night at least, yes."

Batman nods, and looks away for a beat, and then back at Jim. "I need to contact someone..." he says, and Jim stands up, nodding with understanding.

"Take your time. I think I need a cup of coffee, would you like some?" and if the entire situation seemed surreal, this goes well beyond. Especially since Batman's head rises right at that, and Jim could swear, the pointy ears look a little more at the ready. "Coffee coming up," he smiles, and goes to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and switching on the radio, just to make sure no sound of the conversation makes it out of the bedroom.

It's not that he's not curious, if he was to be honest, the mystery and the puzzle drives him insane; after all, he is a cop, putting pieces together is what he does. Which is exactly why he doesn't want any more pieces, because one day, he might actually get the full picture. And he doesn't really want to, not just because what he doesn't know he can't divulge under oath in court, if it comes to that. Also because the Batman is a symbol, and even though Jim knows painfully well he is as human as they come, the blood he had been washing off his hands yesterday is a great hint on that one, knowing his name and his face would make all the difference.

And yet, a part of him wants to know, desperately, to know the man who had given everything up for the city Jim loves, and the man who had made him feel less alone in the fight to bring some order to it.

He turns the volume up, forcing himself to listen to the news, and the traffic report, and the weather forecast. The kettle whistles, and he measures out a generous amount into both cups, turning the radio off. "Coffee is ready," he yells towards the bedroom, a fair warning, just in case. He walks in, and places the cup on the night stand, pausing in thought. "You should take off the rest of it, it can't be comfortable" he says, gesturing with his own cup. "And as much as it would ridiculous with the cowl, I'll get you some shirt and pants," he says, the slight hesitation at the end making it into a question, even though he didn't intend it as such.

"Could be a good idea," Batman nods, taking a sip, and the rim of the cup clinks lightly against the cowl. It shouldn't be funny, but Jim has to hide a smile. He nods and goes to look through his closet, picking out a simple pair of slacks and one of the t-shirts he wears at home, black faded into dark gray.

He gives Batman a searching glance. "Do you need some help with what?" he asks, and really hopes the man doesn't, this entire thing is already too awkward for his liking. But judging from the network of scars in different stages of healing that mar the man's chest and back, he's well accustomed to disregarding his injuries.

"I can manage," comes the rasp, and Jim nods.

"I can get you some cough drops, too," he offers, slightly amazed at his own audacity. Batman looks at him for a long moment, lips curling, and after a moment, he actually laughs, probably the first time Jim had heard the sound, and it sounds more real than the usual growl, natural, for once.

"It's not the most fortunate," he admits, still smiling a little. "But it's necessary."

Jim wants to protest, say that if he can see the Bat like this, at his most vulnerable, not the imposing symbol anymore, they can dispense with the intimidating tones, but he catches himself, another unwanted piece of the puzzle finding its place. He had met the man. And he doesn't mean the Batman here, he means whoever the man is during the day, because Jim is not fooling himself, masked vigilantes don't just appear out of nowhere, he must have grown up here in Gotham, to come to care for the city that much. They must have met.

He tries to keep his brain from working out the list of possibilities, keeps himself from watching at Batman to guess his height, weight, age. Is he a cop, one of Jim's own men? Is he a lawyer Jim had met on a case? Is he... Jim doesn't want to know, really, but his mind tries to work out the mystery out of habit, and he can't stop thinking about it.

"Let me know if you change your mind about needing help," he offers and walks out, not daring to glance back. He's half tempted to find a way to get the man out of his house, daylight or not. This is going to be a long day.

He spends few minutes on the phone, canceling meetings and making up a terrible cold. It's been a while since he had last faked an illness... probably high school. No, it was soon after his wedding, after Barbara complained their honeymoon was too short. Now, faking his death, on the other hand... He has Stephens take over the necessary business and has his assistant postpone all the rest. He probably could go, and leave Batman alone, the man seemed to be reasonably well, but he was still reluctant to do so; not because Jim didn't trust him... well, he actually didn't trust him not to overexert himself, or not to try and leave the house despite the danger. After all, under similar circumstances, Jim would.

He then busies himself with breakfast. Which is another surreal experience, and he had been having a few as of late; making a breakfast for Batman. He could, of course, say he is making it for himself, and if Batman wants to, he can help himself to it, but Jim has never been very good at lying, even to himself.

"I'm not that fond of scrambled eggs," Batman says, leaning against the doorway, hand gently resting on his side, right under the bandage. He's wearing the clothes Jim gave him, and as predicted, looks really ridiculous with the cowl, but at least he's standing without great difficulty.

"You'll eat what you get," Jim offers wryly, and transfers the eggs onto two plates.

It gets him a small smile, and a nod, then they sit down to eat, not bothering with much conversation. Jim watches the other man covertly, judging for the true extent of the injury; the breathing is slightly shallow, as if exhaling hurt a little, and all the movements are slower, careful. Jim considers asking, but stops himself, and instead, once he's done with his food, he goes to the bathroom, finding the prescription painkillers he got the last time he had been injured enough to warrant a hospital visit; a scared kid with a knife at a corner deli, long while ago. He might have taken one or two of the pills then, the bottle is almost full.

Jim places it on the table wordlessly, and gathers the plates. He doesn't hear the telltale rattle of the pills, and bites the comment pushing onto his lips back, at least he had tried.

"You should get back to bed, lie down," he offers, keeping his tone level. He realises he is fussing, and doesn't like it much, and thinks that Batman must like it even less, but he really can't help it.

"Couch will do," is the answer, and Jim thinks that the voice is different now, a little less forced and raspy, a little more of a whisper, and while it's still unrecognizable, it's a step in a right direction, as far as he is concerned.

He nods, even though it would be so much easier if Batman could just sleep through most of the day. Except that this almost sounds like wishing for the injury to have been greater, and he's really not, this one scared him enough, thank you.

His phone perks up, and he takes a moment looking for it, finding it under a dishrag. "Gordon," he says, and smiles as Sheldon inquires about 'the mystery patient' and once more offers his assistance. He refuses, of course, carefully choosing his words, conscious of the Bat listening, not very covertly even. Jim throws him a look, and he pretends to not listen at all, with deliberate innocence studying the pictures on the side table by the coach. Jim almost laughs at that.

As he finishes the conversation on final admonitions from the doctor on the treatment of the wound and the importance of rest, Batman seems to hesitate, carefully placing the photo he was looking at back onto the table, and Jim thinks he looks almost awkward. The cowl is not helping, to be honest. "How are the kids?" he asks, and now, Jim does laugh.

The idea of Batman of all people initiating small talk is just too good, and the entire situation becomes too much. "Fine," he offers, between snorts. "They're fine."

"What is it?" Batman asks, dryly, but his eyes are clear and maybe slightly amused.

Jim gestures between them wordlessly, shaking his head, fighting to push the smile off his face. "I feel like one of us is a step away from suggesting checkers, to pass the time and relax the atmosphere," he offers, and gets a very long, indescribable look for that. "Oh, excuse me. Should I get the board?"

"Actually, I was going to suggest chess," Batman shrugs, and again it takes Jim a moment to catch on, but he really is not accustomed to Batman making jokes, not even the dry, deadpanned remarks.

"I'll get the board," he says, matter-of-factly, and Batman snorts, and doesn't comment when Jim gets back with the board, the only one in the house that has all the pieces, which happens to be Jimmy's Star Wars set, one he had left along with some other stuff, for when he visits. They arrange the pieces for the game, and Jim is slightly disappointed Batman doesn't ask why he gets the black figures; he had a good answer ready, about the voice and the suit and Vader.

He has to get his entertainment somehow, and Jimmy had made him watch the movies all too many times.

Batman plays seemingly without a plan or even a little consideration, he makes his moves immediately after Jim does, and then Jim has to think his own play for a while. But soon, it turns out that the seemingly chaotic moves were indeed carefully planned out, and Jim finds his king covering in the corner, with no real way out, even though he hadn't even lost that many pieces. He's not a stranger to loosing, Babs kicks his ass on regular basis, he's not sure who from did the kid get her smarts; and he tips his king over with a smile.

"Again?" Batman says, and even though the tone is not that different from a question, he's already setting the pieces back.

They talk during this game, however, or rather, Jim talks, and Batman offers one word responses in just the right places. Jim starts by mentioning Babs and her chess games, and it somehow goes from there, and he doesn't even notice when he starts describing his childhood street, and a bike he had when he was seven. He's not entirely sure how he got to this point, but he's even more surprised when Batman offers an actual sentence in response, rather wistfully. "I don't remember my first bike," he says, shrugging. "Alfred always tells me..." his voice fades, and only the pause, and the sudden tension in his body alerts Jim to the blunder he would have missed otherwise.

"My first bike was red," he says slowly, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. "It got stolen three weeks after I got it," he shrugs, and doesn't think about the name, or at least doesn't try to; it rings too familiar, and he's afraid he's close to figuring it out.

"Gordon," Batman says, and it sounds different again, and how does he do that, actually? It's an almost completely normal voice now, just a tone lower and a step away from a whisper.

Jim shakes his head. "You know, calling you Batman gets old, after a while. Not to mention, really weird. How do you feel about George?" he asks frantically, catching the closest strange thought on the surface of his mind, anything not to continue this conversation, and this might be pushing it, but they're just a step away from the point where he really doesn't want to find himself.

Or maybe he's just lying to himself, because a part of him really does want to know, had wanted from the very beginning, from that one time in his office, with the stapler. He had wanted to know then, and millions of times since. After all, how could he not, Batman was the only man he really trusted in this city, the only one who had never disappointed, who wanted the same things for the city, and who actually had a shot at achieving them. It was impossible not to wonder who that man was.

"I'm not sure. Why George?" Batman asks, as if he was deciding to indulge Jim in this, watching him carefully for any tells written on his face.

"Why not?" he shrugs. "I'm not that good at picking names," he offers, smiling. "Or not very imaginative, at least. My kids, for example." Well, actually, Jimmy was Barbara's idea, and he thought it good enough to continue when Babs was born. Granted, it got confusing at the family reunions, but he wasn't going to those anymore now.

"I don't think I like George," Batman muses, and for god's sake, his voice is completely clear now, not a rasp, not a growl, not a whisper, and he must know what he's doing, the man doesn't make mistakes like this.

Well, fine, apart from the little bit of information slipping out, few moments ago, but Jim has to wonder whether it really was unplanned and unwanted, or maybe he's supposed to be piecing this thing together. The name sounded familiar, a distant memory, perhaps, and he has that irritating sensation of knowing something he can't name as of yet, that word on the tip of your tongue feeling.

"I think your bandages need changing," he offers and stands up to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. Probably not a necessity at this point, but anything would be better than this line of conversation, or the line of thoughts it leads to. Thankfully, Batman doesn't protest, just pushes the board to the side, making room on the coffee table, and Jim sits on it as he helps him push the shirt up, after a brief hesitation pulling it off completely, to get it out of the way.

It's not bad, even given Jim's limited expertise with stitching people up, the obligatory first aid training didn't cover that part. He makes a mental note for making up for this, and hopefully extending the courses for his officers, funds permitting. This means more paperwork, obviously, and he'll have to play nice with the brass, but it just might be worth in.

He looks up at Batman's slightly hastened breathing. "Does it hurt?" he asks, pulling his hand back, but Batman shakes his head.

"No, it's fine." There's something in his tone that keeps Jim back from asking anything more, and he just sets back to the task.

"All done," he says, after a moment, and hesitates before pulling away. "Do you..." he starts, and stops, unsure.

"I am suddenly quite hungry," Batman says, a little too fast, and Jim nods. He's apparently not the only one wanting to steer clear of some topics, and he can grant that, certainly hoping for the same courtesy in return.

"Considering the abysmal lack of food in my fridge, I suggest take-out," Jim says, shrugging. He had been meaning to go grocery shopping for the last few days, but never quite got around to it, and the eggs for breakfast were just about the last edible thing in the house. Apart from some cocoa and cornflakes, both probably stale by now. "Chinese fine with you? There's a rather decent place close by that delivers."

"It's fine."

So, they're back to monosyllabic answers, Jim thinks, oddly disappointed. After all, this is what he wanted, isn't it, the return to the status quo. Now with more shared Chinese takeout, of course, but still.

He goes to make the call, and simply doubles his usual order, he's not quite up to inquiring about Batman's preferences for Mu Shu pork, or whatnot. In the meantime, waiting for the delivery, he tidies up the contents of the kit, and replaces it in the bathroom cabinet, spending a longer moment rearranging things there, not that eager to get back to the awkwardness of the living room. When he does, Batman is once again wearing the t-shirt, still looking incredibly out of place in that attire, but this time Jim doesn't feel like smiling.

"At least it's late November," he mutters, and Batman turns to him abruptly, as if pulled out from his thoughts. Jim shrugs. "It'll be dark enough for you to slip out soon. If it was July, you'd be stuck with me at least till ten."

Batman shrugs. "I wasn't complaining," he says, and, a curious thing, it sounds both honest and completely fake at the same time. It's followed by a sigh, and a brief glance towards the windows, where the sky is already graying, typical of a November afternoon. "Jim," he starts, looking back at him, and the doorbell interrupts him, causing his lips to settle into a tight line of annoyance.

"I'll get that," Jim says, redundantly, probably. Not like the Batman was going to go and open the door. Although, if he did, Jim would pay a lot of money to see the look on the face of the smug teen making the deliveries.

They set the cartons on the coffee table, and Jim gets the utensils, as they forgot about the plastic forks, as they always do, and he has never quite mastered the chopsticks and is not about to start trying to. Barbara had once made him the chopsticks-for-beginners set, with a piece of paper and a hair scrunchie, but that was a while ago, and really, he does prefer the good old fork. So does Batman, apparently, if the brief look he gives the chopsticks before pushing them away is any indication.

"Are you going to be fine with getting back to..." Jim gestures vaguely, unsure if 'home' would be the right word.

"So eager to get rid of me already?" Batman asks, and Jim just rolls his eyes, this time he can hear the slightly teasing tone, and as much as he is still a little bit freaked out by this new approach, he's not going to buy into it.

"You know what I mean. And yes, clearly, I am," he adds wryly, and Batman smiles briefly.

"I have... made arrangements," he offers, and Jim can tell he had changed the sentence right there in the middle, and he's again not sure whether he's grateful for the lack of details, or slightly disappointed. The entire day is starting to become pretty tiresome, and he's no longer so sure he doesn't want to just ask already, and be done with it.

"That's good," is all he says, and finishes the last eggroll, before gathering the empty boxes and placing them in the trash can. Batman nods, and glances around, as if in search of something.

"You mind if I put on the news?" he asks, and Gordon laughs, Batman asking if he could watch his tv being one more surreal thing about the entire day, and then he stops abruptly, staring. What surprises him the most, is that it doesn't come as shock, more like something he recalled than something he had just figured out. It's so obvious, he can't imagine how come he hadn't seen it before.

"I thought you didn't watch a whole lot of news," he says, and his voice sounds foreign to his own ears, as if coming from far away.

Batman... Bruce looks at him for a long moment, silence stretching between them for what seems to be close to eternity. "I don't," he says, shrugging. "I have other sources."

Of course he does. Jim nods, and for another long moment just stands there, halfway between the kitchen and the living room, unsure. Finally, he just takes two steps forward and sits on the armrest of the armchair, still silent. It's not less awkward then before, but the tension is gone, and he just feels tired. The room is darkened now, the sky outside going slowly from gray to black, clouds obscuring the view of the very few stars that could sometimes be seen from within the city limits.

"Would you mind if I at least took it off?" Bruce says, hand rising to the cowl. Jim nods; whole night and day in it, can't be comfortable. Bruce's hair is tousled, black paint smeared around the eyes had washed down the cheeks, leaving smudges. He looks about as tired as Jim feels, maybe even more. He looks up at Jim, and it's almost not fair, not when Jim still feels slightly resentful at being forced into figuring it out, to have that look be equally weary and hopeful, and almost pleading.

"I really didn't want to know," he offers, half-sighing, and as he says that, he realises that the annoyance is gone, which is quite unfortunate, he was looking forward to saying something angry, let out the entire day's worked up irritation. "At least it makes things easier, doesn't it?" he mutters. Bruce gives him a searching look, and Jim forces a smile. "Apart from all the other things, you can just walk out of here now. Bruce Wayne coming out of my house may get some raised eyebrows from the neighbours, but no one will call the police thinking you have just murdered me."

Bruce nods, standing up. "Good point," he says, his expression changing, a smile called up, one of those Jim had seen before, in newspapers and on tv, and he might not have noticed this before, but it's more fake and forced than Batman's gravelly rasp.

Just as Bruce is starting to head towards the bedroom, presumably to get the suit and have it packed up somehow, Jim stands up and extends his hand to stop him, and almost automatically his fingers tighten on Bruce's arm. "You know I didn't mean it like this."

Bruce glances down at Jim's hand, and there's a just a brief moment of hesitation, before he looks back up. "You still might," he says quietly, before he's moving forward, and everything slows down, and it seems like eternity before his lips touch Jim's, and Jim has all the time he needs to pull back, and he should do so. He doesn't.

In fact, he does the exact opposite of the smart thing to do, and grasps Bruce's arm harder, raising his other hand on the back of Bruce's neck, pulling him closer, all thoughts he might have had going out the window.

And this must be the day for revelations, because just then he knows that this might have been a part of the reason he was so desperate to remain oblivious, because knowing that Batman was human underneath the suit was one thing, but knowing the man behind the symbol, having him standing before Jim like this, trusting him enough to reveal all... And for heaven's sake, he had needed this man before he had even met him, and it only takes one step to cross from a need that deep into a desire.

Bruce pulls away, for the briefest of moments, and Jim can feel his breath still on his lips. "I still don't mean it like this," he mutters, just for the record, and Bruce shakes his head gently, smiling, and this time it actually looks real.

"I've figured that much," he says, his fingers edging the line of Jim's collar, slowly working the top buttons undone as his lips move almost against Jim's, just a ghost of a kiss now, leaving Jim aching for more. He stops himself from leaning into Bruce, trying to calm his breathing down as he lays his hand flat on Bruce's chest, steadying them both.

"I'm sorry," Bruce mutters quickly, worried again. "Am I..."

Jim shakes his head. "I don't think it's a good idea now," he says, and almost shivers at the quick flicker of expression on Bruce's face, not a mere disappointment, but an almost physical hurt, and all the other pieces fall into place, starting with Rachel Dawes. He swallows, and shakes his head. "Not with your injuries, Bruce. I'm not going to sew you up again after you pull your stitches."

Bruce nods, his whole body relaxing, and the almost palpable physical relief is as hard to see as the disappointment was. For the first time Jim knows that the desperate need is not just on his side, that this is less for him and more for Bruce now, it should have been from the start.

"Doesn't mean I'm kicking you out just yet," he continues, trying his best to sound casual. "In fact, I think that with those injuries, you shouldn't really go anywhere just yet."

"You'll get no argument from me," Bruce says, smiling, and Jim shakes his head again, holding back his own smile.

"Really? That's a first."