Title: The Worst Two Dollars*
A/N: More chapters coming up on this series of flashbacks of how Greg House and Stacy met.
The neon glow from the club's sign cast a flickering red light onto the sidewalk, making everything outside look like the aftermath of a bad decision. Inside, however, was exactly what Gregory House expected—cheap cologne, overpriced drinks, and men who thought slipping a twenty into a garter belt counted as romance.
House didn't do strip clubs, not usually. But Wilson was having one of his "my marriage is failing" nights, which meant House had to endure at least a few hours of pretending they were just here for the drinks.
He leaned back in his seat, half-watching the stage while nursing a whiskey, already bored. The dancer twirled effortlessly, but House wasn't interested in the performance, apparently the dancer wasn't hot enough. He was more interested in people-watching, picking apart their stories just by looking at them.
And then he saw *her*.
Not on stage. Not at the bar. But near the back, sitting in a booth like she owned the place.
A woman in a perfectly tailored black power suit.
She didn't belong here. At all. Which made her immediately interesting.
She had dark hair, sharp eyes, and an expression like she was permanently unimpressed. She looked around the club like she was conducting a cross-examination in her head. House smirked, already intrigued. A woman like that, in a place like this? A mystery.
Wilson noticed where House's gaze had landed and sighed. "House. Don't."
House turned his smirk on his friend. "What? She's clearly lost. I should be a gentleman and offer her directions."
Wilson groaned. "Just once, try not to be yourself."
House ignored him and stood, drink in hand, making his way across the club toward her booth. The woman spotted him coming and raised an eyebrow. House slid into the seat across from her without an invitation.
"You are either a stripper with the world's worst outfit," he said, "or you're a lawyer who took a wrong turn."
The corner of her mouth quirked up. "And you're either a guy who thinks he's charming, or you lost a bet."
House grinned. *Interesting and sharp.* "Greg," he said, offering his hand.
She considered it for half a second before shaking it. "Stacy."
"Definitely a lawyer," he decided. "Corporate? Criminal? Divorce? Let me guess—you spend your days ripping out the hearts of middle-aged men and making sure they never see their kids again."
She sipped her drink. "Corporate. And if I were a divorce lawyer, you'd be exactly the kind of guy I'd be taking for everything he's worth."
He let out a low chuckle. "That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me."
She rolled her eyes but didn't leave. House took that as an invitation.
"What's a nice lawyer like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, leaning forward.
She exhaled, clearly debating how much to tell him. "My best friend just started dancing here. She wanted moral support."
House looked around. "This doesn't seem like a place that prioritizes morality."
Stacy smirked. "She was nervous. I said I'd come. No big deal."
House tilted his head. "You don't strike me as the type to hang around strip clubs."
She mirrored his posture, leaning in slightly. "And you don't strike me as the type to pay for attention."
He grinned. "I don't have to. It just follows me around."
She gave a short laugh and shook her head. "You are *so* much trouble."
House shrugged. "Not yet, but the night is young."
An Hour Later*
Somehow, neither of them had moved. Drinks had been refilled. Banter had been exchanged like it was a sport, and neither was willing to lose.
He learned she was a Jersey girl, hated bad grammar, and had once successfully argued her way out of a parking ticket she absolutely deserved. She learned he was a doctor—diagnostician, to be exact—with a bad attitude and an ego the size of the moon.
And for some reason, she wasn't running in the opposite direction.
Then it happened. A particularly drunk guy stumbled past their table, waving cash around like he had something to prove. He dropped a few bills near House's glass before lurching toward the stage. House barely spared him a glance before reaching for the money.
Stacy raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Stealing from drunks now?"
House inspected the bill between his fingers. "Finders keepers. And look at that—a *two-dollar bill*. Rare. Almost as rare as a woman in a power suit at a strip club."
He smirked and flicked it toward her. "Go on. Buy yourself something nice."
Stacy stared at the bill, then at him, then back at the bill. Slowly, deliberately, she picked it up and tucked it into her blazer pocket.
She looked at him amused.
Later That Night*
They didn't make it to a second location.
After another round of drinks, House made a joke about how she could do better than spending the night in a club filled with desperate men, and she had smirked, standing up like she was issuing a challenge.
"So where should I be instead?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
House had leaned in, voice low and teasing. "I could show you."
The next thing he knew, they were in a cab (since Wilson had drove him there), his fingers skimming her knee, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered something that sent heat straight through his spine.
By the time they got to his apartment, neither of them had hesitated. Her blazer landed on the floor before the door even closed. His shirt followed soon after. It wasn't rushed, but it was inevitable—like a foregone conclusion they both had known from the moment he sat at her table.
Somewhere between tangled sheets and laughter between kisses, she murmured, "I never do this."
House smirked against her collarbone. "Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say."
She nipped at his lip in retaliation. "You are insufferable."
"Yeah," he murmured. "But you like that."
And she did.
The Morning After*
House woke up to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of a shower running. He stretched lazily, a satisfied smirk on his face as he looked around the bedroom.
Stacy emerged a few minutes later, freshly showered, buttoning her shirt as she walked.
"You're still here," he noted.
He smirked. "And I was promised breakfast."
She rolled her eyes. "I never promised anything."
"Implied, then."
She walked over, plucked something off the nightstand, and tossed it onto his bare chest. He looked down and saw the *two-dollar bill* from last night.
"Take your change," she said with a smirk. "Consider it a refund."
House laughed, a deep, genuine laugh that he didn't give to many people. He tucked the bill into his wallet that was lying around before standing and pulling her in by the waist.
"You know this means I have to see you again," he murmured against her lips.
She pretended to consider. "Maybe."
He kissed her again. "Definitely."
END.