Aziraphale made a face. "So . . . in order to break out of the mold I ought to . . . steer people into cement trucks instead of being courteous?" That was logical, he didn't think. The look he gave Gabriel was extremely stern and entirely serious. One does not steer people into cement trucks. One just doesn't.

Shrugging, he tried to articulate what he meant without explaining the situation entirely, and ended up just stuttering. It was too complicated. He looked towards the ceiling helplessly, then back at Gabriel.

He was tired of this. He was used to being able to do and say more or less what he wanted under Adam's protection. Tapping the bowl of his wineglass with a fingernail irritably, he frowned and said, "Well, I didn't question until everything started falling down around my ears, you know. Not really. Not big questions. But I didn't want the world to end." He paused and added perfunctorily, "It was a very good dream."