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Once, his laugh had been a front.
A front to hide the terror gnawing at his insides, twisting and threatening.
He'd feared death, once, long ago.
And that front had saved him, somehow. The front, the swagger, the cheeky wink. He'd gotten blackout drunk (the only way he could have faced his sentence standing) and somehow, he'd never know exactly what did it -- somehow, he'd woken up the next morning in bed with both of his would-be executioners.
That was the first time he truly cheated death. It was easier, after that. His front became a superstition, a talisman.
Then the Doctor came. For the first time, he laughed for someone else, not just for himself. A smirk, a wave. See ya. He hadn't wanted Rose to grieve.
Another close escape under the strangest of circumstances. Superstition reinforced.
He didn't laugh on Bad Wolf Station. There was no point. Third time unlucky. He kissed them goodbye far too quickly, ran before his terror could catch him.
And yet, somehow, he woke up. Gasping, scrabbling out of the darkness that terrified him all the more now for having tasted it.
His laugh was different now, more haunted.
Sometimes bitter, ironic. "Well, why don't you have a go at it, then?"
Sometimes half mad. Some did say, that the definition of insanity was to do the same thing and hope for different results, after all. But he couldn't stay insane any more than he could stay dead. Fixed in time.
He wasn't sure when, exactly, he'd gotten used to it. It was just a part of life, now, unpleasant but unavoidable -- like taking a shit. He laughed at the thought, and at how strange that thought would seem to anyone else. A hollow, tired laugh.
So long.
The last time, he only smiled. He had finally found peace.