Comedy
He spends a lot of time kicked back in a recliner with his feet on the coffee table, doing his best not to look like he's brooding, because he's George without Fred (or the Prewett uncles—all dead) and Lord knows this family needs a bit of comic relief now that the war is over. One hand on his butterbeer and the other under his chin, he spends a lot of time wondering about the meaning of life and why everybody had to go and die and leave him only lies and halfhearted jokes and this goddamn paranoia he can't seem to shake.
Comic relief, comic relief. George spins twelve dozen webs of humor a day, and he never lets his guard down or catches a break, always looking over his shoulder with a wisecrack at hand—
The ghost of his twin would hate to see him frowning.
(he can't wait for the day he's had enough—enough to tell fred to get his pearly white imprint the hell out of his joke shop and leave him alone. he needs to grieve, not to pretend in the never-ending presence of an imitator)