AN: This fic is a reworked repost from 2006. It was originally a prequel (though it could probably stand alone) in response to a challenge issued by Darknightdestiny to create a one-shot based on a line from Vincent's chapter in First Dates. It takes place before Advent Children (but ignores Denzel not knowing Vincent) and Calling Plans.

For my friend NineShadows, who loved this story so much she once made fanart for it, and who also has a new VinTi story up, Incarnatum. And also for all of you who requested this story over the years and have been patiently waiting for its return.

Forfeits

She had phoned him three times today, each call practically begging him to come to town.

He relented finally, braving the promise of snow to come to her, and when Tifa opened the door Vincent could instantly tell by the lines in her face that it was going to be one of those nights. Then he inwardly groaned, because the last time it was one of those nights he had ended up with a nasty cramp in his calf from sleeping on a too-short sofa.

At dinner, they consumed two bottles of wine between them—her to forget about whose chair Vincent was sitting in and Vincent to forget about that damned sofa. It was a mistake, he realized, when he later remembered what kind of mood alcohol put him in.

So after he helped her tuck Denzel and Marlene into bed, Vincent did what he thought was the responsible thing and buckled on his gear to leave. But Tifa wanted to talk, and she wanted to talk, unsurprisingly, about him.

Vincent had never been good with emotions, having had far too many of them in the past, and discussing hers was the last thing he thought he should do—especially when he'd been drinking. But he sighed, hung his coat back on a peg, and stood behind the bar while she sat on a stool and unloaded her fears about Cloud—about his absences, his excuses, and the way he smelled of flowers more and more.

Vincent wanted to tell her to be strong, he'll come around eventually. But tonight, she was a friend who needed more than empty promises. Tonight, a bottle of wine had soaked into his judgement. And tonight, the slow way she drew circles on the countertop was threatening to brush the dust from thoughts he had forgotten he could have.

So when she was done saying what was on her mind, he said what was on his: he offered to make her a drink. And not just any drink.

It took her three blinks to process what he had said. Her gloom was quickly overridden by interest—but for the drink or for him, Vincent couldn't tell. And he didn't have time to dwell on it either, because the only professional bartender in the room immediately scoffed and bet him he couldn't.

So of course he did. Then he slid the drink across the bar and he waited.

She stared at it as if it were a rare materia. She cradled the glass in two hands as if it might break. Her eyes widened as she took a tentative sip, then a bolder one, then a swallow.

"Mmm, Vincent," Tifa said—or rather, purred. "This is nice."

Vincent took the drink from her, sampled it, and handed it back. She was right, he thought, smug. As the alcohol rose from his throat to his head, he hazily recalled standing behind a bar with rolled sleeves and cigarettes and being good at this once. Before.

"I'm shocked I got something this naughty out of you, Vincent," Tifa commented, still nursing her glass. "I never suspected that floating around in your dignified mind was the know-how for a Slippery Nipple."

The smugness in him immediately vanished. Shocked? Dignified? He had been a Turk, for Gaia's sake. It irritated Vincent more than the sofa.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he replied, a touch more defensive than he would've been before the bottle of wine. "Just because I locked myself away for nearly thirty years doesn't mean I didn't have a life before that."

In response, Tifa fixed Vincent with a look he'd seen her use on things with teeth and tails. "Okay, hotshot," she said slowly. "Let's see what you've got."

She tossed back what was left in the glass and pushed it across the bar at him. "As the only professional bartender in the room, I bet you can't make me…a Slow Screw."

The words shot right to his, ah—competitive streak. "You're going to end up drinking those words," he promised her. And because he was feeling a little less-than-dignified, he added, "Besides, you look like you could use a good Screw."

"Vincent!" Tifa's eyes widened. Then she laughed, and not innocently.

Her reaction tapped at the door to a long-dormant part of him. As he set to work twisting off caps and remembering ratios, Vincent considered the predicament his biology had placed him in. Tifa wasn't entirely wrong—though his body was still twenty-seven, his dignified mind was about to turn sixty. He might not look it, but most days he found himself thinking and acting like a shuttered old man.

But tonight, the wine and the sip from Tifa's drink were trying to convince him otherwise. Tonight, he was starting to feel more like a young old man, more like someone who had once stood behind counters and mixed drinks for fun, more like someone who had once pursued women who thought they belonged to other men.

And, as if on cue, he turned and caught one such woman openly staring at his butt.

It almost made him drop the orange juice. He fumbled for it and an explanation. The wine and the Nipple! he told himself. Nothing more!

But what if it was more? What if it was him? What if it was her? What if she—? What if they—? What if— What if he tried not being himself for one godsdamned night?

He grabbed another bottle from off the shelf.

When he slid the finished drink toward her, he said, "Here's your Slow Screw." Then he leaned over the bar and told her in a voice he hadn't used in over thirty years, "But I'm giving it to you Up Against the Wall."

He felt her gasp more than he heard it, saw the heat rise from her neckline to light up her stare. "Is that…so?" she asked. Her eyes never left his as she eagerly caught hold of the glass and took several long gulps.

Vincent put his hands on his hips. "Well?"

Tifa licked her lips. "Oh, I liked that," she said.

Vincent commandeered her glass. He drained the rest of the liquid and handed it back to her. The smugness had returned and brought with it some recklessness. "It would seem that I'm two for two," he gently taunted.

"So you are," Tifa acknowledged. "So you are… Let me think."

She idly toyed with the glass, tipping the loose ice from side to side. They listened to the cubes clink against each other for half a minute before she suddenly stopped and sat upright. Vincent braced himself.

Grinning widely, triumphantly, Tifa said, "As the only professional bartender in the room, I bet you can't give me…a Screaming Orgasm."

A drink wasn't the first thing to come to mind. Neither was it the second thing to come to mind. But Vincent was too far in the game now to let himself be swerved by ideas he had no business having. As his slightly dusty thoughts grudgingly returned to the matter at hand, he sifted through them until he found what he sought.

"You're in luck," he announced. And then he added, with just enough naughtiness to pique her curiosity, he hoped, "I happen to have a lot of experience in giving women Screaming Orgasms."

Tifa's grin wobbled. She leaned forward. "Oh...really?"

Vincent leaned forward as well. "Really."

She leaned in closer. "But, like…really?"

"Really." He braced himself against the counter and angled in close enough to see her freckles. He lowered his voice to what he imagined a sinful rumble sounded like and said, "I'm sure I could give you a really good Orgasm, Tifa—probably even the best you've ever had."

Her eyelids lowered a fraction. The noise that came out of her might've been a whimper. "I haven't had a really good one in forever," she confessed. "How would you, um, go about this?"

"Well, first..." Vincent paused dramatically. "I would take some vodka. Then some amaretto—"

He was cut off by a coaster being thrown at his head.

Vincent laughed, a full-bodied, whole-hearted chuckle that to his ears sounded nothing like a sixty-year-old. Though far from an expert, he thought he was doing pretty well at flirting. He wondered if he should give it a try more often. The pouty look on her face was worth it. The sullenness of her lips, the flare of her eyes were—

The wine, the Nipple and the Screw! he told himself, shaking his head and his focus back to where it belonged. Nothing more!

He made two shots. The first one he drank, because despite his experience Vincent knew he was rusty. It was a little heavy on the vodka, he decided. The second one he gave to Tifa with slightly less. He watched her closely as she tipped it back.

The glass slammed down on the bar. "Oh my goodness! Is it hot in here?" Tifa asked. She animatedly fanned herself with both hands and it threw her off balance, making her sway a little on her stool. She caught herself and giggled sheepishly at Vincent.

"Three for three, Tifa," he told her.

"I know! I know!" she said. "You are quite the surprise tonight, Vincent. Quite the surprise." Her eyes took a lap down and up his body before settling on his face. "But I just thought of something you probably can't do."

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

"Well…if you insist." Tifa splayed a hand on her chest and assumed a lofty air. "As the only professional bartender in the room, I have decided that I want a Sex on the Beach…"

He smirked. "Who doesn't?"

"...With a Friend."

Vincent could've sworn he had another quip at the ready, but nothing came out. Nothing except—"What?"

Tifa cupped a hand to her ear and imitated his tone. "'What? What?' Losing your hearing, Vincy?" She laughed uproariously at her joke then pounded her fist on the bar, suddenly serious. "I. Said. I. Want. Sex on the Beach—"

"With a Friend," he finished. "Yeah, I heard that."

Though he wished he hadn't. The wine, the Nipple, the Screw and the Orgasm! he told himself. Nothing more! To further add to his troubles, Vincent was coming up blank on the recipe—and it had absolutely nothing to do with the sound of waves on wet sand, he told himself.

"Well?" she asked.

Though it irritated him more than the sofa, he was forced to admit, "I...don't think I know that one."

There was a beat before she sat up straight on her stool—a little too fast, a little too eager for his liking. "You don't?"

"I just said I didn't," he answered through gritted teeth.

Tifa clapped her hands together in delight. "Then take the gauntlet off, Vincent, 'cause you're staying the night!"

His gauntlet was the only thing he managed to put on before she had decided she wanted to talk. He looked down at the straps that took him forever to buckle on. He looked across at the woman who was grinning like the coeurl who got the cockatolis. He thought about that damned sofa again.

And the sixty-year-old man in him said, "No."

The word incensed her. The red flecks in her eyes lit up like hot coals. She sucked in a breath, then stabbed a finger at him and roared, "How dare you, Vincent Valentine! I won fair and square and you're taking it off!"

He watched as she planted an unsteady knee on her stool and leaned precariously over the counter. Were he less than her friend, his eyes would have darted somewhere other than the floor.

"Tifa," he said, addressing the ground. "Be reasona—"

"I said take it off! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Vincent made the mistake of doing just that. Tifa had, by some means, climbed onto the counter and was now standing with her arms and legs akimbo. He was torn between concern for her safety—as she was more than a little intoxicated—and perverse curiosity.

How had she been able to get up there so easily if she was sloshed? Why was she wearing a skirt in winter anyway? Had her legs always been that long?

He rubbed his forehead, suddenly tired. His dignified, sixty-year-old mind took that moment to remind his twenty-seven-year-old body why flirting was best left to the experts—as, clearly, it had backfired on them both.

"I think you should get down from there before you fall." Eyes flitting between Tifa and the floor, Vincent made a vague motion with his hand and hoped she'd interpret it as an order to get down just as carefully as she had gotten up.

"Oh, are you worried I might hurt myself?" Tifa asked. "What if I started dancing?" She began gyrating her hips to music only she apparently could hear. "Gosh, I hope I don't fall…"

Vincent couldn't take any more. Had he said "backfired" earlier? He had meant "been blown all to hell."

"Fine!" he said, defeated. One-handed, he began working on the tethers of his gauntlet. He tried to keep a concerned eye on Tifa and her unsafe, suggestive dancing, but the buckles had suddenly become much smaller, the straps inexplicably too slippery.

Legs appeared under his arm, cascading over the edge of the bar. Tifa pulled his gauntlet into her lap, and with nimble fingers made deft, short work of the stays. His glove was next to go, nearly ripped from his arm with a wide sweep of hers.

"Ah, there you are," she cooed to his now-naked forearm. Her fingers intertwined with his. "I thought he was going to keep you from me for the rest of the night."

"It's just a hand, Tifa," Vincent told her. "It's not going to carry on a conversation with you." He set his gauntlet and glove on the bar behind her with his free hand, and began mentally prepping himself for an early morning leg cramp.

"Oh, but I love this hand," Tifa assured him, her eyes wide and solemn. "It's my favorite hand in the whole wide world. If I could, I'd sleep with this hand every night."

"I come with the hand," he reminded her.

"Fine. I'll sleep with you too. You don't snore, do you?"

Vincent swallowed hard. "Ah, no. I don't believe so."

"Okay, good." She hugged his arm to her chest. "Now, as the only professional bartender in the room, I bet—"

Vincent shook his head. He tried to extract his arm from her grasp without brushing against what it was nestled between, but it was like trying not to notice his face when he was shaving. "No more bets tonight. It's late. We should probably think about getting to bed. Separately."

Instead of thinking about how her knees were on either side of him. About how she finally loosened her hold on his arm and had shifted it to rest on her leg, how her hip was practically filling his hand.

"No, no. Come on," Tifa cajoled. "One more. Please?"

Vincent shook his head again. "Tifa, you're drunk. I really think we should get you up to bed."

"What if I don't drink anymore? What if you take a different forfeit instead?"

"I think not."

"Come on. What if I buy you a new shirt?"

He still remembered the last one. "No, thank you."

"Okay, fine. How about...a new gun?"

"I'm content with the ones I've got."

"A hug?"

"You hug me all the time, whether I want you to or not. In fact, you'll probably hug me before I say good night, which"—Vincent glanced at the clock: 12:41—"will be very soon." Where the hell was Cloud?

"All right… How about a kiss?"

Vincent froze. A kiss? A kiss? The puppy was supposed to be next. Or the ice cream. Or the trip to Wutai.

Certainly not a kiss.

The wine, the Nipple, the Screw and the Orgasm! he told himself. Nothing more!

"Please, Vincent? You don't even have to make it. If you name the ingredients, I'll know you know. One more?"

He closed his eyes and sighed, ashamed to be mulling it over. "What is it?" There was always the chance he wouldn't know it.

"A Junon Panty Ripper."

He knew it. He hung his head. "Pineapple juice, salt and rum."

Under his veil of hair, he saw Tifa's legs twitch. "Okay, then," she said, and her voice held a tremor of either nervousness or excitement. "I guess I owe you a kiss."

He raised his head in alarm. "No, you don't. I really think it's time for bed."

"Nope, nope," Tifa said stubbornly. "We made a deal, and I never renege on a deal."

"Ah, but I think I could make an exception this time. Becau—"

At the first touch of her lips upon his, Vincent's eyes flared wide open. Surprise! his mind and body said in unison. Gods, it had been so long since he'd kissed a woman. Did he even remember how? He belatedly snapped his lids shut. Bad decision.

Deprived of one sense, all of his other senses kicked into high gear. His nose took in the smell of her hair, her perfume, her fabric softener. His ears picked up the way her breathing had changed and the quick, sudden moan that had his libido roaring to life with a vengeance. His nerves were aware of her at every contact point—her lips against his, her hands at his shoulders, his hands at her waist, her legs at his hips—and he felt something vital and undeniably human course through him. Vincent wondered if he had ever lived before now.

When she parted her lips, Vincent held very still while his mind wrestled with his body for control. Because she might be drunk. She might not remember. She might remember and be ashamed. Or she might not be...

Her mouth opened wider, in invitation, and Vincent decided he was done listening to reasons. Just this once, he promised, and then he'd put some distance between them for a while. Just this once, and he'd—

The sound of a key turning the front door lock wrenched her lips, her hands and his chance cruelly away from him. He jumped guiltily apart from her just as Cloud stepped through the door.

"Tifa, sorry I'm late again. The weath—" Cloud stopped, eyes leaping back and forth between Tifa and Vincent. "What's going on here?"

Oh, just the wine, the Nipple, the Screw, the Orgasm, some flirting, a little bartop dancing and a barely innocent kiss with a friend, Vincent wanted to say. Nothing more!

"She's had a little too much to drink," he said instead, taking the opportunity to retrieve his things from behind her. He moved a few feet away as he pulled on his glove and started buckling his gauntlet back up. "I think you should take her up to bed."

Tifa made no protest at his preparations to leave though he was afraid she might. Instead, she swung her legs in thoughtful silence and stared at the floor.

Cloud rounded the corner of the bar, smelling of cold flowers, and lifted her from the counter, his hands where Vincent's were moments ago. "Come on, Teef. Let's get you upstairs."

Her nostrils flared and knees buckled as her feet touched the ground. Both men reached for her, eyes meeting awkwardly. She swatted their hands away and drew herself up haughtily.

"I'm fine," she said. They watched her walk unsteadily, but successfully to the doorway leading to the stairs. "See?"

"Yes, well. I must be leaving." Vincent nodded to a silent Cloud and headed to where his cloak hung, next to the door.

"Thanks for staying with me, Vincent," Tifa called, one hand on the doorway frame. Her gaze was a little too clear, a little too direct for someone who could barely walk a straight line moments before. "I really appreciate you coming all this way and spending your evening with me."

Cloud scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, thanks for staying with Tifa and the kids while I was gone, Vince. See ya around."

Vincent buckled up his collar, effectively hiding his smile, and lifted a hand in farewell. "Good night, Tifa, Cloud." He swung the door open.

"Vincy?"

Vincent waited on the threshold, but didn't trust himself enough to risk a look at her. "Yes?"

"Maybe someday…I'll tell you what makes Sex on the Beach with a Friend."

If she meant the drink or him, Vincent couldn't tell. But he didn't need to any more. "Maybe someday…I'll want to know," he answered.

He pulled the door shut behind him, but not before hearing Cloud say, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Outside, the weather had made good on its promise and was delivering a few flurries. Barely any snow to crunch underfoot, Vincent noted. Not enough to inhibit travel, anyway.

But there were plenty of things for Vincent to think about other than Cloud and his questionable behavior. Better things, like dodged sofas, or naughty drink names, or skirts in cold weather, or kisses that almost weren't.

Or the suspicion that the only professional bartender in the room was also a really good actress.

AN: Hopefully it was worth the wait. Hit up that comment window and chat with me!