Title Any Fool Can Tell the Truth
Rating PG-13
Characters/Pairings House, Amber; Wilson/Amber, House/Wilson
Word Count 2,279
Spoilers None
Summary House calls Amber to pick him up from a bar; the games aren't over quite yet.
A/N This is only the beginning of something insane.



…but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.

The precise moment Amber steps into the bar, House knows. She hangs by the door momentarily, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, and then she begins to scan the room, gaze passing over House several times until at last settling on him. House pretends not to see her, observing her from the corner of his eye. She’s practically doing a full-body eye-roll before making a beeline for him. House can feel half the bar glaring at him, suspicious, then incredulous—some of them probably think she’s a prostitute, which only amuses House further.

She’s standing right next to him now, shadow cast, but House is in no rush; he takes his time in acknowledging her, considering just the right words to piss her off just the right amount. Settling for simple, he turns to Amber and says, “Sit down. Have something to drink.”

Seriously? she asks with the tilt of her head. Who do you think I am? she adds with a raised eyebrow. I am not amused, says her frown. Not Wilson, unlike Wilson, implied. She opens her mouth. “I’m not drinking. That destroys the whole point of you calling me in the first place.”

“Not if the point is just to annoy you.”

And Amber can’t hide her annoyance, never could—not during the games, and definitely not now. When she reacts, well, House just can’t help but find even more ways to annoy her. He gestures towards the bar tender for a refill and to mix her something; even though Amber protests, he carries out the task, which is sure to get under her skin. Eyes rolling, hand on hip, an exasperated sigh. It’s too easy sometimes with her.

She frowns at the two glasses, then asks, “How much have you had to drink?” Almost sounds concerned there, good trick. Ignoring the question, House takes a shot. “Fine,” Amber says, not making a move either towards him or the exit. “Mind at least telling me what you’re doing drinking at this hour? Besides trying to piss me off, that is.”

Too easy, but he’ll take what he can get. “I don’t know, is it working?”

“You’re lucky I won’t just leave you here to rot. Remember that,” Amber says. She sits down next to House at the bar, but still very pointedly does not touch the drink before her. Her expression holds a carefully-measured amount of annoyance, and her voice is set to guilt. As if that ever works on House.

“Interesting,” House says, mostly to himself. Amber doesn’t bother asking for elaboration, not caring what interests him, and sure he’ll tell her anyway. Which he does. “Are you doing this for Wilson, or are you doing this for me?”

“I’m doing this for Wilson,” Amber replies, not missing a beat. She nods in the direction of House’s drink. “Are you doing this because of Wilson, or because of me?”

“One of you could drive anyone to drinking. The two of you combined, it’s amazing I’m not suicidal.” With a raised glass, House says, “Cheers.”

The eyebrow goes up again. Distracting. “Remember that time you stuck a knife into an electrical socket?” Amber asks, sounding bored as she conspicuously checks the time on her phone. “If that wasn’t suicidal, then I don’t know what is.”

“I’m sure a simple-minded being such as yourself might misconstrue—”

“I don’t know why you do this to Wilson,” Amber says, gaze steady, penetrating. Eyes softened just the right amount, just like when she came to talk to House at the hospital, to plead her case for her relationship with Wilson. It has to be an act, the way she turns it on and off; he’s seen her work during the games. She’s good.

House laughs at this. “I’m not doing anything to him.”

“As hard as it is for you to remember, I am a doctor,” Amber says. Her stare is harsh and judging, like she has the right. “You’re mixing Vicodin and excessive amounts of alcohol. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

A silence lingers; House taps the empty glass contemplatively. “Hypocrisy’s a beautiful thing.”

Amber sighs and taps her fingers against the counter in response, impatient. “Are you done? I’m on-call, so if you actually want me to drive you home…”

This is good, she’s evading. “At least my pills are prescribed,” House retorts. He watches Amber, waiting for her to react rather than deflect. There isn’t the slightest change in her expression, but just because she’s an excellent liar, he isn’t going to doubt what he knows, what he’s seen with his own, very trustworthy eyes.

“You have a prescription for alcohol?” Amber asks, insisting on keeping the subject on House. “Ever since I’ve known you,” she says, as though it’s been years rather than months, “you’ve done some stupid thing or another to risk your life every other week. And Wilson is always there for you. And I’m there for Wilson.”

“Right. And the amphetamines are there for you, I get it.” House reaches over and takes Amber’s untouched drink. “You can keep pretending not to know what I’m talking about, I don’t care. I’m sure Wilson would, though.”

Amber gives him a disbelieving laugh, almost entertained, not a hint of scandal. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“I don’t know, would it work?”

Amber observes House carefully for a moment before responding. “Why are you so determined to hurt Wilson?”

“You’re the speed freak, and I’m the one hurting him? What next—gonna shoot me in the face and then make me apologize?”

“Look,” Amber says. “I’m not going to make excuses. Quite frankly, I don’t owe you any explanations. But right now, Wilson doesn’t know anything. So, yes, you would be the one hurting him. Someone you supposedly…care so much about. Do you really hate me that much?”

“Don’t underestimate your unique and exquisite ability to inspire intense feelings of hatred,” House says. “So, what are you willing to do to keep your secret a secret? Break up with Wilson?”

Amber continues to scrutinize House and then, ignoring his question, gets up and says, “I’ll be outside. If you decide you’re ready to leave within the next few minutes, I might still be there. You know what my car looks like.” Not bluffing, Amber walks out of the bar, not giving House a chance to argue or even trick her into picking up the tab. Shrugging, he finishes off the rest of her drink. At least he knows he’s getting to her, and he hasn’t even brought out the big guns yet.

Eventually, House stumbles his way out of the bar. There’s still so much needling left to do. As promised, Amber is sitting in her car, contemplative, probably considering driving off despite her earlier remarks. Hypocrite. She starts the car. House taps on the window, startling her; maybe she really was about to leave. Interesting. Amber rolls down the window and asks, “Are you actually ready to go, or do you want to play some more mind games?”

“What kind of question is that?” House asks, reaching into the car and unlocking the passenger’s door. “Really, can’t we do both?”

“Buckle your seatbelt,” she says.

“Yes, Mom.”

The two of them sit in silence for a while. Amber focuses on driving, and House starts pressing any buttons he can find, rolling the window up and down, turning the overhead light on and off. After a minute of this, Amber finally says, “What are you, three?”

“The more intelligent you are, the more easily bored you get.” Amber responds only by rolling her eyes. “Of course, if you prefer talking…”

“Fine, whatever,” Amber says. “It’s better than getting into an accident.”

“I find it interesting you didn’t even touch your drink.”

“You find not driving drunk interesting. Okay.”

“Well, not as interesting as you being pregnant, of course.”

“You have a wonderful imagination. Why did you decide to go into medicine?” Amber asks.

“Do you really think the only thing I found at your apartment was your drug stash stuffed in your vitamin bottle?” House asks. “There were a lot of interesting things, like home-made porn and half-eaten breakfasts in the trash.”

Amber nods slowly. “That would explain why you’re leering at me, but where does my alleged pregnancy come in?”

“This receipt,” House says, taking it out of his pocket with a flourish, “has a home pregnancy test listed on it. Couldn’t find one in the apartment, which means you’re hiding it, which means it’s positive. And the half-eaten breakfast means morning sickness. Six weeks?”

There’s a long pause. “Seven,” Amber admits. No point in denying it. The silence continues. Amber glances over at House from the corner of her eye. “You don’t have any stunning commentary on this?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” House says. “You weren’t drinking, which means you’re at least considering carrying to term. And popping out Wilson’s spawn would guarantee he’ll stay around, which a plus in that column for you.”

“That’s not a plus,” Amber says.

This intrigues House. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Don’t sound so excited. Maybe you’re okay with resorting to cheap tricks, but if Wilson’s only going to stick around because I’m pregnant, then our relationship is a lie,” she says. “Shit, that was Baker Street, wasn’t it?”

“I vaguely remember you once saying ‘if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying hard enough.’”
“I was talking about one of your stupid games. There’s a difference, I’m sure even you can grasp that,” Amber says. She finally pulls up to House’s apartment. He doesn’t make a move to get out quite yet. “You’re going to tell Wilson about this too?”

Thinking about this for a moment, House quips, “You know, truth is the basis of a healthy relationship.” Amber rolls her eyes again. “But lies are the foundation of every good marriage.” House gets out of the car—well, to the best of his ability. After struggling up the handful of stairs to the front door of his apartment building, Amber takes pity on him and gets out of her car; she slips underneath his arm, the second time she finds herself as his crutch.

“Where’s your key?” Amber asks when they’re inside.

“Bar tender took it.”

“That’s helpful,” she says. Amber pulls out a hair pin, hair falling against her shoulders, and begins to work at the lock. Soon, there’s a satisfying click, and Amber pushes the door open to 221B, gesturing House into the apartment.

“Impressive,” House says. Amber smiles. “Although I keep a spare key under the doormat.”

“Of course,” she says under her breath.

House wobbles over to the couch and ungracefully seats himself. When he looks at Amber, he seems surprised she’s there. “I know I’m so very lovable, but it’s time to cut the umbilical cord.”

Amber approaches him, arms crossed. She’s pleased. “You think you’re really clever, digging up dirt on me,” she says. “What makes you think I can’t do the same to you?”

“Are we selectively applying the ‘hurting Wilson’ logic again?” House asks. “Besides, I’m up-front about being an ass. There’s nothing you can find that Wilson doesn’t know about or would surprise him. But, go ahead. Try me.”

“You’re assuming it has to do with you being an ass.”

“Unless you have pictures, you can’t prove I was being nice.”

“I don’t need pictures,” she says. Amber begins to head to the door, pinning her hair back up, self-satisfied. It’s too neat. What could she possibly know?

“Bullshit,” House says, stopping her in her tracks. “You’re bluffing, and I’m not falling for it. Try again.”

“You’re in love with Wilson,” she says plainly. House is unable to come up with an immediate response to the accusation—no, she said it more like a simple fact. His hand inches over to his thigh reflexively. “I know what this is all about. You’re not trying to split us up because you’re an ass, or you don’t like me, or you’re just some needy social reject. I don’t know how Wilson can’t see it…” She shakes her head. “But he doesn’t. I could enlighten him for you, if you’d like. Break the ice.”

“Your attempts at blackmail are amateur, CB. You disappoint me.”

“Right, because when I tell him, he’ll realize he’s been repressing his deep, gay love for you, and then you’ll ride off into the sunset together,” Amber says. “Or, it’ll just weird him out, make things awkward. You’ll probably avoid each other until…” Amber shrugs. “I don’t know. How long do you think it would take to get over?”

House rubs his thigh, glaring at Amber, not bothering to come up with a reply.

“You’re Wilson’s friend,” she says. “I know that a strain in your friendship would hurt him. So I won’t tell him your secret, and you won’t tell him mine.” Amber lingers a few more moments before she finally leaves the apartment, the sound of the door shutting unreasonably satisfying.

She thinks she’s won. But House knows she’s played her best hand, and she only thinks he has.

House takes a Vicodin and is sure he can already feel the spike of pain receding, numbing, better than the alcohol can do. She thinks she’s won, she thinks she knows Wilson so well, but he has watching Wilson down to a science—the slightest tension in his body, the slightest change in his breathing, the slightest dilation of his pupils.

Even Wilson’s not that good of a liar.