Chapter Text
Crowley miracles his drink into his hand, rather than untangle himself from Aziraphale, and takes a mouthful. It tickles slightly against his tongue, in a fizzy sort of way, and his mouth ticks up at the corner, amused by the sensation.
He passes the cup to Aziraphale, who also tries some, and Crowley can't help but grin at the expression on his angel's face. It just seems - funny.
Aziraphale stares back at him, his expression slowly morphing from a huff to a smile.
Crowley's own grin grows ever wider at the sight, laughter fizzing inside him as the drink takes hold, and he ventures a joke. "I say, I say, I say, what do you call an angel with sticky fingers?"
Aziraphale glances at his free hand and cautiously licks a (non-sticky) finger. "I don't know, dearest, what do you call an angel with sticky fingers?"
Crowley leans in as if it's a secret, and finishes, "Angel-lick."
Aziraphale splutters with laughter of his own, hastily sets the cup down before it can get the idea of spilling on anything, and turns the joking back on Crowley. "I say, I say, I say, what do you call a demon born and bread?"
"Dunno, angel, what do you call a demon born and bred?"
Aziraphale wiggles, beaming, as he puns off a custom long out of date. "De-manchet!"
Crowley blinks a moment before he remembers the manchets of bread that were once (centuries ago) used as plates, and then a very undemonic giggle escapes him. He can't bring himself to care about that, he's too busy throwing another joke at Aziraphale. "What do you get when you guillotine candy?" he asks, and barely waits for Aziraphale's response before he declares triumphantly, "Fruit-bastilles!*"
Aziraphale takes that as a challenge, and they're off. Puns that rely on dead languages to work. Jokes that the world has abandoned millenia ago. References to things that were only funny if you had been there. Memories of things that hadn't seemed funny at the time, but could be looked back at with more rueful amusement than regret.
And they laugh. They laugh as they have never done before, as they have never had the chance to do before, since they were trapped into the images that their respective overseers and bosses demanded they uphold.
They laugh until their cheeks and sides ache, until tears of laughter stream from their eyes, until they are breathless and heart-light and happy.
They laugh because they can now, openly, freely, together, without needing to control or hide it.
They laugh until it comes out the other side as love, bright as a lighthouse beam warning ships away from the rocks it stands on, dazzling their defiance in Heaven and Hell's eyes. Then they collapse against each other for support, recovering the breath that they don't really need, but choose to have all the same.
Crowley pulls off his dark glasses, setting them aside so that he can properly dry his streaming eyes.
And then Aziraphale tips back his head, and smiles tenderly into Crowley's golden eyes and asks, with the true bastardly mischief that only he is capable of, "Do you still want to serenade me?"
Crowley trails his fingers through Aziraphale's soft curls until he is sure he won't break down laughing again, and then smiles back, his own inherent mischief inextricably entwined with his love for his angel. "Said I would, didn't I?"
Aziraphale nestles closer, leaning into the touch of Crowley's hand. "Go on then."
Crowley chuckles, and begins, his voice just loud enough to reach his angel's ears. "Never gonna give you up. Never gonna let you down..."