Gilt and grey.
It takes Vash a while to get used to another living thing in his house; for a week or so every movement the boy makes raises hairs on Vash's arms, leaves his fingers prickling for a trigger. The kid is like a wraith; his skin is almost grey and most times his eyes are open all the way to white. He's quiet too – even Vash sometimes doesn't notice him when he is stretched along the smallest sofa practically dead for all the movement he wakes.
The first time the kid makes any real type of noise and he is screaming. Vash can practically smell the rubber burning from the bottom of his shoes as he skids into the room, gun to hand and all nerves screeching like an unturned violin.
God knows whether the kid is alive, asleep or who-the-fuck- knows, but the weapon Vash is gripping isn't for night terrors – he's half convinced the kid has driven himself insane again. His heart slows from a cha-cha to a mamba when he sees that, firstly, nothing has managed to wend its way into the household and secondly the kid is crying, his eyes still shut.
Shit, but nobody ever pegged him for a nursemaid. But still he awkwardly lays the gun, safety on, on the coffee table and reaches for those thin arms. "Kid." His voice is gruff, and reminds him that he's never been good with people, not really. Wincing, he tries again, putting a little more shake into the movement. The kid's eyes peel open and he stares right on up at Vash; freezing every movement he had been making, screams dying down to a thin wail, then to no sound at all.
Vash only realises he's looming over the kid like a priest over an alter boy when the kid tugs his wrists down and away, shrinking into the sofa cushions. Vash shifts his weight back, so he is sitting by the kid's feet, leaning back against the arm as unthreateningly as he can. "Sorry, son. Hey, you alright? You were yelling up a storm." He watches him out of the corner of his eye and sees the kid's eyebrows furrow under the raggedy mop of pale hair. He makes a sound halfway between a cough and a wheeze, and Vash leans forward. "Sorry, again?"
"Zephyr," the kid says and Vash feels a grin stretch over his face. He swings off of the sofa, the movement leaving the kid – Zephyr, leaving Zephyr startled with the speed of it. Vash doesn't look back as he heads back to his room, waving one arm over his shoulder. "Glasses are in the kitchen kid, if you want some water for that throat of yours."
Vash forgets his gun left on the side, and still sleeps easy for it. What he doesn't forget is the gunmetal grey eyes of Zephyr looking up at him, or the press of his hip against his legs. Shit.