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“We can’t move on a Friday,” Crowley announced, idly scrolling through social media.
Aziraphale glanced over. “Whyever not?”
Crowley grinned. “S’posed to be bad luck. Saturday, too.”
“Ah.” Aziraphale looked thoughtful, then — before Crowley could clarify that it was superstitious nonsense — asked, “What’s the most auspicious moving day?”
“Uhh.” Some quick Googling. “Thursday?”
“We’ll move on a Thursday.”
***
“Exit by the same door we enter,” Aziraphale said. “Our first time in the cottage.”
“Huh?”
“It’s unlucky not to. According to this.” Aziraphale displayed a book.
“...Are you researching moving superstitions?”
“Yes.”
Crowley opened his mouth to tease.
“Because,” Aziraphale continued, “I shan’t risk anything interfering with living on our side.”
Somehow, Crowley couldn’t think of a teasing response after all.
***
“We’d better skip the salt,” Aziraphale reflected. “And sage. Repelling evil spirits seems slightly counterproductive.”
“Can always sprinkle some around later if you change your mind.”
“No,” said Aziraphale, and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”
***
“We don’t use brooms,” Crowley protested the latest proclamation. “I mean, my flat’s clean at least, but have you ever swept this place?”
“Once. In the ‘80s. Though I gave the broom away.”
“Point stands. We don’t use brooms.”
“Still,” Aziraphale insisted. “We need a new one. For a fresh start.”
Crowley conceded. “On condition you occasionally use it.”
“We’ll sweep up the uncooked rice.”
“The what?!”
***
“Don’t put fennel in the keyholes.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, angel.”
“Good. Or Anathema couldn’t visit. It wards off witches.”
“Pretty sure she served us fennel salad. But, okay. No fennel in keyholes.”
***
“No candles,” Aziraphale murmured, rubbing Crowley’s back. “No fires. I promise. I’m sorry I mentioned it. I should have thought.”
“S’okay.” Crowley huddled in his hold.
It was.
***
“We bring bread and salt inside first.”
“Salt again? What’s the deal with sodium?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “It means our life will have flavor.”
“Wouldn’t masala dosa make more sense?”
“True…” Aziraphale considered. “Well,” he decided, “I suppose we don’t want too much flavor. There’s always London for that. Some peace and quiet sounds nice.” He hummed. “Besides. There’s no danger of blandness, with you around.”
***
“Crowley. You are not gluing coins to our floor.”
“You’re the one said it’s lucky!”
“Scattering coins! Not gluing!”
Crowley laughed. “S’pointless inside, anyway. I’ll glue them outdoors instead. After scattering.”
“Fiend.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek.
***
It was raining. Bugger. Crowley glared out the window.
All their preparations, Aziraphale’s research, Crowley’s humoring, and now the grand Thursday was here and it was raining. Unluckier than anything. Why hadn’t they miracled clear weather? Was it too late now? Would that even count?
Bugger, Aziraphale must—
“Oh, how lovely,” said Aziraphale, his voice beaming.
“What?”
“Rain. It’s a good omen for us, wouldn’t you say? Just like old times.”
A pop. An umbrella, suddenly over Crowley’s head.
“...Guess so,” Crowley said. He smiled, too.
They stepped outside, into the rain of fortune, to start their new life together. (And neither even realized Aziraphale had opened the umbrella indoors.)