It was easy to disassociate alien blood - in its many decidedly not-red colors - from the violence that followed Shepard everywhere. She'd done it without even really thinking (a natural defense mechanism, therapists had reassured her) and now the splatters of blues, oranges, greens did nothing to move her beyond the mess they made. In quick flashes, they could even look artistic, like an amateur's first attempt at street art, shaky hands protesting blank concrete walls.
She realized she loved him when the sight of his blue blood splattering the floor of Archangel's lair made her stomach tie into a knot.