Disclaimer: Not mine.
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He shrugs his coat on absently, breath puffing out in little clouds as he trudges through the parking lot. He ignores the looks and outright glares he gets when he leaves the hospital. The news has gone around ridiculously fast, and apparently House is even more of a bastard (Wilson didn't think that was possible) when his best friend has sold him to the cops.
He hunches down slightly against the cold and his thoughts. Even in his own head he can't avoid phrases like 'betrayal' and 'sold him out.'
He wants to scream; he can feel it building up inside of him, but his congenial mask is so firmly fixed that it won't slip even a little; he makes it back to his car in a silence that he's not sure is better than screaming.
Dropping his bag on the passenger seat, he gets behind the wheel wearily, closing the door with a snick. He puts his face in his hands and sits there a moment, rubbing his eyes. He lifts his head and looks around, at the car everyone seems convinced he would unconcernedly give up over a decade of friendship for.
He closes his eyes again and wishes he could pick up some of those rocks outside and throw them, again and again and again, and maybe if he turned his car into a dump, destroyed it, they would believe that it didn't mean anything to him; he only wanted to help him…
And then he opens his eyes and he's still sitting in his seat, hands clenched tightly, knuckles showing white.
He starts his car up and heads for his empty house.
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