If there was any grace at all to be found in Gabe's current state, it was that at least angels couldn't throw up. Or even have any real stomach to be nauseous. That didn't mean that stumbling across the floor in a purely physical manner didn't make the Archangel's head swim.

He was aware of Ghastly in some manner, aware of the change in magic in this place. The safehouse was a construction, but a subtle one, and for that he was thankful; the area they were in wasn't well-populated, so the abrupt dearth of prayers also helped the ring in his ears subside.

The pain ease, at least, enough that Gabe was somewhat cognizant of the sofa beneath him. In that moment, that sofa was the most wonderful object in the world, and Gabe sank into it with relief, drawing his feet up and trying to swallow any sound. It didn't quite work; though the others' conversation was soft, even ordinary noise was oddly painful.

Still. He heard enough. The Archangel took a few deep, slow breaths and whispered, "M'nephew."

Even the mere act of talking sent vibrations all through his head, and with a not-quite groan the Archangel pressed his face into the pillow. The darkness, he found, was much preferable to the purely physical light.