"Fifty two weeks out of the year, you're never sick. Three-hundred sixty-five days, and 당신 choose the one where we all have a good chance of dying to be dying even more. Very nice." They just lied together in a corner of the morgue, Cuddy lying nearly flat on the icy linoleum floor with House practically arching over her.
"I don't recall your sarcasm being a treatment to any known disease so far. I'm pretty sure whatever I have doesn't need it either."
"Just shut up." House glared at her as he ran his stethoscope up and down her back, and along her chest. As he did so, she tilted her head at...
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