“is this some kind of joke?” he’s really asking, sitting cross-legged across the table from the peculiar angel ( INDULGING, as he so often does ). nose scrunches; weight leans into the elbow resting upon the tabletop; shaded eyes pick apart the other’s body language. is he trying to flirt? is the breakfast half-disappeared from his plate that good? has he finally just lost his marbles? it’s hard to say, but aziraphale has never been great at telling any kind of joke so crowley defaults to bad comedy.
“your sense of humor really needs some work.” presented as an honest opinion, but one of marginal value to the demon. he gets plenty of entertainment from the principality’s antics as it is– he doesn’t NEED to try to be funny. it’s not part of his charm. but if he’s going to insist on telling jokes, he’s GOT to tell better ones. “why don’t you take some classes? they have those– what are they, modern day jesters… stand-up!” hand smacks against the table in reaction to the sudden light bulb illuminating his dim understanding of modern entertainment concepts. humans have made things very complicated.
“stand-up comedians. take a class for that.” satisfied that he’s given good best friend advice, crowley relaxes back and takes a sip of his coffee.
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