He stares at her for a moment, shocked. Not just that she's questioning his judgment - though that is startling, he'd grown accustomed to how much weight he carried with her just by being what he was, as has always seemed proper - but that she's right. His trust is enough for him, but not for Melanie, the danger she presents.
He doesn't know how to confront that. He doesn't want to.
"What would you have me do?" he says a bit desperately. "Keep him out? Turn my back on him? He's a prisoner, not a - whatever Lucifer thinks he is. He..."
He cuts himself off abruptly. This isn't helping. This mess isn't her fault, and she's right to want what he promised, absolute protection, against all threats, hypothetical or otherwise. As long as Crowley belongs to Lucifer, he's a danger to Melanie. Even in the abstract. No matter how much he does not want to accept it.
Miserably, he takes his hands from her, staring at the floor. He lifts one hand and makes a limp, half-hearted gesture. A pulse of energy moves through the walls, the floor, the ceiling, pools around the windows and the door. She won't be able to feel it, but he'll know it's there. And Crowley will know, if he tries to come here again.
"I've reinforced the wards," he says dully, "so they'll keep out Crowley in addition to Lucifer. I'll know if he tries to break through. You'll be safe here."
He can't look at her. He should. He knows she must feel terrible about this, that she doesn't want this so much as she needs it. But it feels too awful. He's never had to take a measure like this, not once in six thousand years.
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He doesn't know how to confront that. He doesn't want to.
"What would you have me do?" he says a bit desperately. "Keep him out? Turn my back on him? He's a prisoner, not a - whatever Lucifer thinks he is. He..."
He cuts himself off abruptly. This isn't helping. This mess isn't her fault, and she's right to want what he promised, absolute protection, against all threats, hypothetical or otherwise. As long as Crowley belongs to Lucifer, he's a danger to Melanie. Even in the abstract. No matter how much he does not want to accept it.
Miserably, he takes his hands from her, staring at the floor. He lifts one hand and makes a limp, half-hearted gesture. A pulse of energy moves through the walls, the floor, the ceiling, pools around the windows and the door. She won't be able to feel it, but he'll know it's there. And Crowley will know, if he tries to come here again.
"I've reinforced the wards," he says dully, "so they'll keep out Crowley in addition to Lucifer. I'll know if he tries to break through. You'll be safe here."
He can't look at her. He should. He knows she must feel terrible about this, that she doesn't want this so much as she needs it. But it feels too awful. He's never had to take a measure like this, not once in six thousand years.
"Will that do?" he asks softly.