It hadn't taken Father O'Reilly long to remember Solomon's description of Saint Gabriel. He rather wished it had taken a lot longer, but... on the other hand, if it had, he would certainly have worked it out when Gabriel spoke directly to him, and then he'd be like a deer caught in headlights when he was supposed to be responding.

As it was, he was grateful for even the short amount of time he had while everyone else was distracted to adjust.

Paddy Steadfast.

It felt right. It clicked, just the way Solomon said it would. But that didn't mean Father O'Reilly understood it, and it didn't mean he'd quite accepted it. He'd had all of twenty seconds to try and accept a complete change of identity - he couldn't exactly be blamed. So it was startling enough when anyone else used it, even completely disregarding who was saying it.

He had bare feet. A blue t-shirt. Shorts. Black curly hair, almost exactly like - as Solomon had put it - a middle eastern exchange student. Because he did look young. University-age young. And yet, there was something about his face, something about his eyes, that spoke of experience. Wisdom.

Pain.

So Paddy had been right about there being an injured angel. He was just wrong about practically everything else.

"It's... no problem," he managed. "It's been my honour. You're welcome."

He knew about prayer, he knew the Bible. He knew the facets of his faith and how to comfort the grieving. He'd been through all the training, tried to be prepared for any situation. He felt like he'd been as prepared as possible for discovering and helping a Necromancer, and he felt like he'd managed admirably.

But he'd never been trained or prepared for this. And he'd certainly never been prepared for being praised, or personally thanked, by an Archangel.