"Only if you rest, too," Crowley says. He slips off his sunglasses and tosses them carelessly on the side table.

He looks over at Aziraphale, and he gives his hand a squeeze with his own. He's tired. More than tired. War, then a curse, then a miracle? Crowley doesn't sleep, not really, but right now he could. He could really sleep, properly sleep.

"And I don't mean the kind of rest where you're just worrying about everything rest," he says. "I mean rest."