The House Fan Fiction Archive


The Day After Yesterday

by Basingstoke

He tried to be gentle, but there just wasn't a subtle way to slip your arm from under someone else's body. The guy--and James desperately tried to come up with his name--rolled over and opened his eyes.

"Hi," James said.

"Time for the Walk of Shame already?"

"Well, it's dawn." James tugged his arm out and sat up, rubbing the tingle out of his hand.

Gah, what was his name? He was a doctor at the hospital where James was interning, so this was going to be awkward anyway. Really awkward.

"Greg House. Infectious Medicine."

"Oh, I didn't forget," James said in a rush. "I was just thinking about my schedule."

Greg rolled his eyes. "It's too early in our relationship for lies. Now is when we have the awkwardly flirtatious small talk and scar investigation. What *was* that, anyway?" he said, poking James in the left buttock.

James jerked. "Uh. Soccer injury."

"Took one for the team?"

"Fell on a sprinkler."



"See? *Now* we can move to long silences and attempts to flee the scene," Greg said.

James lay back down. Greg rolled over, taking some of the blankets with him so that James's leg was hanging out in the cold, and propped himself up on his elbows. He cocked an eyebrow and looked down at James. "Nice job," Greg said.

James frowned in puzzlement.

"On the silence."

"So show me your scars," James said.

"Oh, mine are all emotional." He smirked in a way that made James want to punch him.

"Ah, the unkindest cut." Punch him and then kiss him. James yanked some of the blankets back and shifted onto his side.

"Except for a scar from an ex-girlfriend's cat that makes me look like I was depressed as a child."

James cracked his eye. "Show me."

Greg leaned over and rested his wrist beside James on the pillow. There was, indeed, a short, thin, pale scar over the fat vein inside his wrist. "Nicely placed," James said.

"The cat had murder on his mind." Greg leaned onto James's shoulder. "What happened to slinking off into the creeping dawn?"

"I'm not on until noon," James said into the pillow.

"That's a shame. I enjoy a good slink."

"I'll see if I can work one up for you."

"Of course, what you were originally trying for was more of a skulk. More secretive," Greg said, and James could feel his warmth closing in against his skin. "More shameful. Do you love your wife?"

James clutched the edge of the pillow. He paused a little too long. "We're separated."

"Not what I asked." Greg leaned against James's back and rested his chin on his shoulder. James looked up into his face--and what the hell was that, anyway, masochism?

But there wasn't any hurt on his face, just a relentless... curiosity. There he was, snuggled up to James's naked body, and he really wanted to *know*.

"Yes, I do love her," James said.

Greg smiled faintly. He shifted, sitting up, and then took James's hip and rolled him onto his back. "What?" James asked.

Greg waggled his eyebrow and pulled the blanket over his head. "Pretend I'm her," he said, and licked James's stomach.

"What? No! That's *perverted*," James yelled. And of course he was stiff, because his penis *always* pointed toward the path of most enjoyment, but that was just wrong.

Greg tossed back the covers. "Cheating on your wife is fine, but picturing her while cheating is perverted?"


"What a confused man you are," Greg said. He dropped down and swallowed James's erection.

He wasn't confused, James didn't manage to say, he was just... like his last girlfriend had said... kind of a slut.

Actually, she'd called him a roving-eyed man-whore, but that was the gist.

He clutched Greg's hair and didn't say anything. "Ah. Ah!"

He came and he fell asleep.


Later, he slunk out while Greg was getting dressed. It was easier than coming up with an anything interesting to say, and it was definitely a slink, for all that he tried to do it without any shame at all.

She *wanted* to try an open relationship. She *said* so. He didn't have any reason to feel bad.

He took a shower before doing his wife's dishes from breakfast and going in to work.


"Dr. Wilson."

James turned around. Chin up. Eyes steady. Poker face. "Greg. Dr. House," he said.

"Right and right. You learn fast; good for you. Any change in Jackson?"


"Improvement?" Greg lowered his eyebrows. "That's strange."

"This is a hospital. We try to make people better here," James pointed out.

"Yes, but not when they're treating her for the wrong thing. What kind of improvement?"

"Reduction in fever and breathing improvement--wait, what do you mean, treating her for the wrong thing?"

"Trollec overruled me. That's really weird," Greg said, and his face went absent. He turned and started down the corridor.

James followed him. He had rounds--but this was actually interesting. "So something else entirely..."

"Has to be. It's not pneumonia."

"Bronchitis," James said.

"No, no..." Greg walked faster, but James kept pace.

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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.