Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters belong to the wonderful Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. This is my first Good Omens fanfiction so may be a little crappy. R&R please. I love getting feedback. WARNING: CONTAINS SLASH. Don't like it, don't read.

The First time it happened they were in Renaissance Italy, surrounded by paintings of heavenly beings and winged creatures. Aziraphale was in such awe of the art(1) that he turned and kissed the demon right there, much to both of their surprise. That was the first time of many. They didn't talk about it afterwards.

Several centuries passed, to the two beings it felt like mere days. The Renaissance shifted into the Baroque and the Baroque into the Romantics...all art movements happening with two shady figures in the background; watching and inspiring.

The second time it happened was in the early Victorian period. The angel and the demon met for lunch, the former dressed in a pale suit, the latter in a dark one accompanied by a top hat. They walked through the streets of London slowly after their meal, the angel stopping every few minutes to give coins to beggars and homeless children. The amount of poverty upset Aziraphale, and Crowley made sure to keep his mouth shut(2). They went back to Aziraphale's bookshop, before the antiques were antique and merely a little frayed around the edges.

They were a little drunk and a little fed up, Aziraphale spent all his time helping homeless people, and Crowley spent all his time in the workhouses...the closest thing to Hell on Earth he often said(3). They hadn't meant for it to happen, but one drink too many and bickering over the state of Poverty soon led to their lips pressing together, nails digging into shoulders and a soft moan escaping Aziraphale's mouth.

The third time was different. Air raid sirens boomed through the black streets of London, searchlights blazing, the sounds of people screaming, and running, and dying. The angel and the demon cowered between the dusty shelves of the small antique book shop, they heard blasts coming closer and Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand.

"It can't end like this. We can't die can we?" Aziraphale asked, his voice shaking a little. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand back, we're in this together.

"I'm not so sure." Crowley said after a while.

As houses and shops and factories and Churches burned around them, the angel and the demon made love in the small bookshop. Crowley grabbing handfuls of golden locks as he thrust into the angel, his lips parted against the creamy white of his neck, pelvis and knees and arms aching from centuries of desire, now satisfied as they let out a gentle moan in unison, the demon collapsing against the angel's pearly chest. This time they did speak about it, and the conversation lasted several decades.

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(1)Admittedly, Crowley had played a huge role in inspiring such art.

(2)As to not give away that it upset him too.

(3)It was not that he enjoyed making peoples lives a living Hell, more that he had less work to do there...tempting was much easier when people were desperate.