A/N: I don't own this song or these characters. Out of Control belongs to Oingo Boingo, and the characters Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

Sorry if this seems horridly OOC and cheesy as hell. It's my first ever attempt at a song-fic, so the pacing was incredibly hard to hold, so I hope you guys can piece together what corresponds to what.


Crowley shivered, seeing his breath form small puffs of fog in the Bentley's cold interior, slowly beginning to lose sight of the road when the vapor clustered to the windshield. It didn't occur to him to turn up the heater, though he did fumble with the controls until the defogger sparked to life. Then he replaced his white-drawn hand on the steering wheel, holding it with the strength that could barely squish a stick of butter. He couldn't bring himself to hold on any more.

He parked manually, a little too close to the car in front of him and not entirely straight. The rain wasn't pouring too hard, so it came as something to a shock to him when he finally found himself on the landing of the bookstore, hair dripping and narrow rivulets running down his neck. When Aziraphale opened the door after the fourth bout of faint, uneven knocks, asking what in the world he was doing here, Crowley paused, unable to remember leaving his flat.

Just how he couldn't remember how he came to be here, wrapped in a faded, old quilt in the backroom of Aziraphale's store, cradling a cup of tea that threatened to spill at any moment. The mug, heated by Aziraphale to the utmost care, brought color back to his hands, though with the color came the ache of unstaunched bloodflow. Crowley continued to shiver as his body temperature began to rise again, head bowing in near exhaustion. He watched the steam pour from the tea, and saw the surface ripple when a drop of rainwater dripped off the edge of his matted, soaked hair.

"Really, my dear?" Crowley felt the couch shift as Aziraphale sat next to him, and glanced over to see that the angel was holding a cream-colored towel. Aziraphale lifted it and Crowley closed his eyes behind his sunglasses, letting the somewhat scratchy fabric be moved around his head, slowly drying his jet-black hair. It had a musky smell of old books and an old-fashion dryer, tinted with the underlying smell that was nothing sort of angelic. Sweet, thick, creamy, and soothing in a way that no human masseuse could even hope to be. It smelled like the world's greatest cup of hot chocolate. "It's not that I mind your late night visit, but you could have called. You were the one to teach me how to use the telephone. Unless," he ventured, "your friend Hagur, or was it Lutar, got stuck in your ansaphone again? If that's the case, I'm afraid I can't be of much help. …Crowley?" he asked tentatively when there was no response. "Did you run into trouble with one of your own?" Crowley shook his head slightly, and Aziraphale bit his bottom lip. That was good news, at least. His superiors had refrained from contact as well, which was both worrying and relieving. It still didn't explain Crowley's behavior though. "Well, that's good, isn't it? As long as we remain ignored, then we, what was the phrase, 'act as though it continues to spin on'," he said brightening, proud of himself. He watched expectantly for Crowley to crack a smile, hiss sarcasm, but all that came out was a wretched, low, "I can't."

"What?"

"I said I can't." The mug of tea began to shake, mirroring Aziraphale's calm. "It doesn't matter if I wait six days or six thousand. I screwed it up. Even if I corrupted every soul in England, no, the world, it isn't going to change anything. It's like waiting for Armageddon but worse, because this time no matter who wins, it won't be me. Ever. There's nowhere for me to go, except nowhere."

Everything clicked. The unanswered phone calls, the knowing but unassuming shrugs from Adam, the steadily increasing cheer and goodwill among the streets. Aziraphale could picture painfully too well Crowley sitting in his flat, ignoring the obstinate ringing of the phone, forgetting to water his plants as each day passed. Or Crowley simply driving, trying to find some place to go, half-heartedly spreading evil until it had all the impact of a fly landing on someone's nose. Losing the will to will the apartment clean, even to tempt others.

To dry his clothes.

"You came here," Aziraphale said quietly, wondering how long Crowley suffered before his arrival ten minutes prior.

"Didn't know what else to do," the demon mumbled, seeing the vast darkness behind his eyelids. "I just, I just, just…"

Aziraphale moved the towel to the side and went to wipe Crowley's wet face, realizing a moment later what was actually happening. Stunned, he froze as Crowley released a choked sob and dropped the mug of tea, staring into his empty palms. "Crowley," Aziraphale said weakly, paralyzed with uncertainty. He gave no sign of having heard, instead muttering, "Can't do it anymore, 'Ziraphale. Got nothing to hold on to."

Aziraphale let the towel go, using his free hand to wipe away a stray tear on Crowley's cheek. This was more than a battle of free will or personality. This was a matter of pure, unadulterated nature. It was true that Aziraphale found that he sometimes had more in common with Crowley than other angels, but Heaven looked out for its own. At least once in seven days angels were bathed in a chorus of gratitude, and in their deepest nature, even when being scorned, the work of a kind deed sated an angel like good oil fuels a car. It kept them going and it kept them happy.

Aziraphale hadn't been too far off when he said that evil contains the seed for its own destruction. But like Crowley, in the opposite direction, humanity was affecting him. Sometimes it wasn't good enough just to do your job. Though he wouldn't admit it, being an angel felt downright thankless to Aziraphale, in some parts of the world more than others. Especially at concerts. But that was only sometimes. No one ever thanked a demon for its work. No one believed even for a second that a commendation from Hell was ever sincere. And everyone knew that you had no friends Down Below.

And six thousand years is a long time to live and know. And eternity was longer.

One arm slipped around thin shoulders, tugging the slightly smaller man to rest in the crook of Aziraphale's shoulder. Crowley went willingly, not even protesting when Aziraphale slid the sunglasses out from behind his ears, folding them neatly and placing them on the table, using the time to deliberate. Sure, many of Aziraphale's missions were to stop humans who felt similarly to Crowley regain their inspiration to live, but they were young and malleable. Surround yourself with some holy light, appear to them in dreams, or in some cases, merely offer an ear and a shoulder for a while. Sometimes all it took was a few words of comfort they had never heard before, but Crowley was likely to have heard it all.

Or maybe not.

As a rule, angels are naturally profound singers with a love and deep understanding of music. Though Hell has the best composures, their symphonies and operas, if told about in church, would surface in every citizen a higher desire to do good. Despite this, Aziraphale was careful about who he sang to, which was almost always just himself. Sometimes he sang to the children in orphanages, and another time to an elderly woman on her deathbed, but it was always Crowley who sang enthusiastically in the car or in the middle of the streets. Aziraphale didn't mind humming though.

"Crowley," Aziraphale croaked, all too aware of the logic behind Crowley's broken statements. "Listen to me. You've got to hold on. Just for a little while longer. Things will get better." Crowley didn't respond, his hiccupped breathing all that indicated he hadn't lost consciousness. "Things will get better," Aziraphale soothed again. "Look at everyone else. Everyone says, sooner or later you'll reach the end of the line. When things get rough, some think it's easy to jump the ship. You decide."

Crowley clung weakly to the quilt enveloping him, recognizing vaguely, through his hazy mind, that something about Aziraphale was changing. On the other hand, Aziraphale could feel his cheeks reddening—he hadn't meant to start singing, but it was hard not to. Especially when Crowley couldn't hear his voice. But he remembered the children, and the old lady, and prayed that consciously or not, Crowley would listen.

"I say, don't throw it away. There's about a million reasons why." A lump formed in his throat, though his voice stayed steady. And Crowley, with his head buried in Aziraphale's shoulder, blinked blearily, turning his head to see what was happening. He opened his mouth to talk, but Aziraphale sang over him, "Though you've heard them all before and you're getting very tired. Lay your head on my lap and I'll sing you this lullaby…"

Don't you know, yeah

That everyone around you

Has felt the pain you feel today

You're out of control, yeah
And you want someone to tell you

When you wake up in the morning, it'll only be a dream

Crowley did soon find himself with his head resting on the angel's lap, the quilt being re-arranged around him, and Aziraphale's soft hand brushing the matted hair off his forehead as he continued to sing. Finally lying down, warm, away from bad memories (though one did stick to him, one of smoke and fire, and feeling as alone as he had for the past few weeks), Crowley let go. One hand kneaded the beige cloth from Aziraphale's pants and he cried. If only it could be a dream.

You're out of control, you're out of control

You're out of control, you're out of control

Maybe it could be. Maybe if he only slept, they would never find him. Or maybe he was already asleep, though this wasn't a nightmare. It could be a dream; in real life, Aziraphale would never sing. Or stroke Crowley's hair as tenderly as he was now. Either way, it would end, because paradise's never lasted. And I always ruin them.

There's a cloud rollin' overhead

And it seems to rain on no one else

There's a black sun casting a black shadow

I know you feel so alone

How often was he that cloud? Crowley couldn't remember. He was a demon after all, and now that he was there, wouldn't have it any other way. But it always rained in hell, and he was beginning to miss a little golden sunshine from time to time.

You're out of control and you want the world to love you

Or maybe you just want a chance to let them know

That you live and breathe and suffer

And your back is in the corner

And you've got nowhere to go

Crowley shook his head faintly. He'd gone centuries without the world loving him and he'd never lost a night of a sleep over it. But the recognition? Crowley thought back to Hatsur and Lugar, and why morons like them would gain their status. He thought about all his ideas, and how hell was too slow on the uptake. He thought about the car accidents, the shootings, the fires, and the disinterest from those who had never lost a body. The impatience from humans who told him he could never understand. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears welling in his eyes. The pain was real, and because he got second, third, thirteenth chances, it never stopped happening.

Nothin' for nothin', every thing's right

At your fingertips for a price

Who ever said that life on this planet

Would ever be paradise

"I'm sorry," Crowley whispered despairingly, or at least, that's what he would have said if his apology, always buried in the deepest crevasse of his mind, didn't come out as a hoarse whine. It had been right there, and it had been so easy. She hardly took any convincing, and Crowley had never considered it an accomplishment, and especially not now. Her innocent brown eyes stared accusingly into his soul, and Crowley feverishly whined again. "I didn't mean for it to go so far."

"I say, don't throw it away. You've got too many things to say." Aziraphale smiled despite himself, though it trembled and faded fast. "If you throw away your life, if you throw away your life, if you throw away your life," he sang, eyes stinging and voice choking, "The world will never be the same." Crowley's grip tightened and he hiccupped.

Don't you know, yeah

That everyone around you

Has felt the pain you feel today

You're out of control, yeah
And you want someone to tell you

When you wake up in the morning, it'll only be a dream

The strain had been taking its toll, and now that Crowley was here, he felt himself losing the battle. His eyes slipped closed despite his efforts, not to stay shut forever, but to give him the rest he so needed. The tension left his body with each stroke of Aziraphale's hand, sometimes accompanied by a quake of drowsy pleasure. When Aziraphale's hand brushed past the nape of his neck, Crowley shuddered and bowed his head. He was rewarded when the angel returned there.

You're out of control, you're out of control

You're out of control, you're out of control

Don't you know, yeah

That everyone around you

Has felt the pain you feel today

You're out of control, yeah
It'll only be a dream,

Struggling against the weight of sleep, Crowley couldn't help but wonder if Aziraphale felt it too. A surge of guilt swept through him, causing Crowley to curl tighter into a ball. If he had, he never said. He'd never come over to Crowley's flat in the middle of the night, never begged for comfort or forgiveness. Never broken. If he had, and never told Crowley…

You're out of control

And you move without direction

And people look right through your soul

You're out of control and you want someone to tell you

When you wake up in the morning it'll only be a dream

And looking down at Crowley, his one true friend for years and welcome company for even longer, Aziraphale sang, "And I wish that I could tell you, it will only be a dream."