Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Because I just watched this week's CSI Miami. Yeah, my life is shit right now, so pardon if this sounds even more angsty than Type.
Blank Slate
He'd noticed something, during that whole scripted murders thing. She'd stopped wearing black. Ever since he'd told her that he liked the way she looked in the color, she'd been wearing it. It'd been a nice boost to his male ego. It had been a nice, background thing that he'd never really thought about except in passing.
But now? She was wearing white. Pale gray shirt, white pants. She was beautiful in anything, of course, but white made her look washed out. It was startling, the change. He'd gotten so used to seeing her the way she'd been for the last several months; eyes bright and smile wide, always ready with a quip or a helping hand. Now? She seemed withdrawn around him, eyes guarded in a way they'd never been before.
It was as though someone had washed away everything that she'd built up since he'd met her. She was a blank slate, letting herself be whatever was needed.
He wondered, fleetingly, if he'd had anything to do with the change. And then he pushed the thought aside, because it was painful, and brought up feelings he didn't want to examine.