Frown deepening, Aziraphale leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze intent and focused. This was not a conversation he'd been able to have with anyone before, not even Crowley, because that have been terribly insensitive. Now that he had the opportunity, he was not going to let it go. "Why," he asked, "does being a good son mean not asking questions? And, and staying distant from Creation. And never having ideas. That's barely existence."

As he said it, he realized, in a more concrete way than he ever had before, and, remarkably, without any urge to tamp the realization down, that he had disobeyed in spirit long before Armageddon, before the Arrangement. It had begun with Eden and the gift of fire, but it had evolved over millennia into an engagement with humanity and history and Earth that he hadn't even been conscious of.

Barreling forward recklessly, he spread one hand wide, knuckles of the other going white on the edge of the table. "And stupidly black-and-white thinking, and no interest in anything, and being dull. Why do we have free will if not to use it?"