It was his hands, or rather hand, that Cid noticed first. Well, not first, but somewhere on the long list of things he noticed; somewhere near the top was his hand. When he had first seen Vincent's hand without the black glove, he'd been surprised. One usually expected a gunman's hands to be callused, maybe blackened from powder and god knows whatever they used on the damned weapons. Instead, long fingers that moved carefully across the barrel, checking for flaws or wear. There wasn't any sign of dirt. Cid supposed that had to do with the bastard wearing such thick gloves.
With that much leather on, one would think he'd have trouble moving too, but no, Vincent managed to move as if he was a damn shadow. Elegant or something, the way Vincent moved; hand, body, and what have you. Even the claw seemed to work with the rest of him and it was damned confusing that someone as skinny as a rail and carrying around such a large gun could move so fucking quick.
Cid was tempted to be jealous of the bastard, but what he lacked in grace and beauty, he made up for in ability to beat someone bloody with a broom.
"Are you going to eat that?" Cid looked up in surprise.
Vincent was holstering his weapon, looking at him curiously. Cid realized with a start that he was still holding his breakfast, a peach, warm now in his hand, in front of his mouth, ready to be eaten.
"What?" Vincent motioned to the peach.
"Of course I am," before he could make a show of eating it, Vincent had snatched it from his grasp and taken a bite.
"For the apple," Vincent explained.
"Bastard."