Silver linings. Ex-wives. I don't give a damn anymore, but that's not necessarily a reason to celebrate. I can be a real son-of-a-bitch sometimes. Just ask any of the former Mrs. Wilsons.

The storm turned away, no silver lining to be found, but leaving behind the soft patter of rain and the occasional flicker of lightning. The temperature dropped to the point where the breeze brought out goosebumps. I pulled the covers up over myself and the sleeping Greg. On his side, back to me, I threw the blanket over his shoulder. He flinched a bit, then soon fell back into a deep sleep. No getting up for a while. I was a little disappointed. Insomnia must be contagious because I couldn't sleep. I got up and went straight for the liquor cabinet.

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"What are you doing out here?" Greg asked with a touch of concern in his eyes, standing over me. I had fallen asleep in the living room. "Did you get lost on the way to the spare bedroom?"

"No," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes until pink and green spots started swimming around my lids. A glance at the clock tells me it's five in the morning. "I came out here for a drink and never made it back to bed."

"How much did you have to drink?" He sat down and eyed the scotch bottle on the table while trying to pat my hair down. I probably looked like a rooster.

"Too much, apparently," I answered as my head began to throb with the beginnings of a hangover.

"You only drink like that when something's bothering you," he said knowingly, and he should know better than anyone. "So what is it?"

"Nothing," I said, wishing my voice was stronger. "You were asleep and I wanted a drink so I came out here. No conspiracy."

"And so you guzzled half a bottle of scotch."

"No, I didn't."

"That bottle wasn't even opened last night," Greg pointed out, his tired eyes still luminous in pale lamp light, "and now it's half empty. This is exactly what you did before Julie kicked you out. So I'm going to ask again, what's bothering you?"

"And I'm going to tell you again, nothing is bothering me. I wanted a drink and drank too much. That's all."

"You're lying to me, Jimmy," he said stolidly, then stole the scotch away and stalked to the kitchen. I heard the sound of water gurgling into the coffee pot, and the floof of the stove being lit. Soon the scent of coffee drifted in and all around my drowsy senses. A few minutes later Greg limped back in and handed me a steaming cup and bottle of ibuprofen. "Here. Lying is easier when you're sober."

"Would you please not do that?" I sighed, completely exasperated with everything and everyone, especially the friend I live with and sleep with. "Not today. Save it for Chase or Cameron or your patients."

"Do what?" He disappeared for a moment, then came back with his own mug. The steam clouded up his scruffy face for a few seconds as he settled back into his spot on the sofa next to me. His strong coffee overpowered the weak mixture in my cup.

"You are talking down to me and I don't appreciate it," I replied curtly, and swallowed some pills. "You are accusing me of being a liar and I don't appreciate that either."

He sipped at his coffee, cool and calm as ever. "Maybe I am talking down to you, but you're still lying to me and I'd like to know why. Am I still like a human Rubik's Cube to you, Jimmy, still angry because you can't solve me."

"No, it's nothing like that."

"So something is upsetting you."

He caught me. Dammit, maybe someday I'd actually learn to lie sometime before I was too old to care. "I've had too much time to think lately, and not all of it has been worth thinking about."

"You make thinking sound like a bad thing," he said.

"It is when you think about your failures."

"What failures?" he asked with legitimate interest. "Since when is being a doctor, an oncologist, considered a failure?"

"It's not. My marriages were. One failure after the other."

"Your marriages or your divorces?"

"Good point," I smiled thinly. "Last night I was thinking about how I didn't care about my any of my little creampuff wives anymore."

"Why were you thinking that," Greg asked with a frown.

"Because I'm a bastard who couldn't be bothered to make my marriages work." I answered in all seriousness. "I was the one who couldn't keep my vows."

His frown shifted to a narrow grin. "You should rethink that answer. There's isn't room in this apartment for two incessant bastards. And I'm not about to give up my title. I had it first."

I gave him a narrow grin of my own. "So what does that make me?"

"We'll have to think about that." He put an arm around my shoulder. "In the meantime, what's done is done, what's past is past. You can't change it, so stop beating yourself up over it."

"I'll try." I said, sounding less-than-convincing.

"You better do more than try. "

"I said I'd try. I promise."

"What about your wives?" Greg asked almost as if he really wanted to hear my answer.

"I hope they put my alimony to good use," I said, and leaned into his shoulder.