how is it that I don't have a Joe icon?

[skoosiepants]

I don't know how I started reading Merlin/Arthur fics, but whatever. This is what NEAR CONSTANT WRITER'S BLOCK does to my brain. That said, I wrote a little more of my Joe/Bob fic? Joe's on a talk show about music! He cut off all his hair! Bob is messing with his sleep patterns! That's about all I have right now. It's a little lame, but whatever.

Greta does not actually kill Joe, but it’s a close thing. He’s curled into his seat at the end of the oval table, head ducked to his notes, and he’s studiously ignoring the way Greta is sniffling and making wounded faces at him and trying to talk Brendon into an even brighter shirt than usual to take some of the emphasis away from the fact that Joe has, “Ruined the entire aesthetic of the show, oh my god, Trohman, how could you?”

Lacey has an evilly smug smile on his face as he stands off to the side of the stage, mug of coffee between both hands, hunched over like he’s about to break out in a mad cackle. Joe does some rash things. Joe should remember that Lacey is a douchebag asshole bent on making Joe look like a total fool before, say, chopping off all his signature hair.

Joe sighs.

Ballato, their normal replacement for whenever Pete flakes out on them and disappears, drops into the chair next to him and props her chin on one palm, fingers tapping her cheek. She arches an eyebrow.

Joe says, “I know.”

She grins. “It sort of suites you.” She reaches out and rubs at his jaw. “At least you still have your scruff.”

Ashlee bounces up on the stage and says, “Guys, guys, I saw the most amazing band last night. The keytar, it’s totally coming back!”

“Was it ever here?” Andy says through a yawn, headset around his neck, leaning into the edge of the table tiredly. “Also,” he points at Joe, “ha.”

“Five minutes, guys,” Jon says. He knocks his knuckles into the tabletop. “Good show.”

Patrick hustles up with Ryan trailing after him, holding about twenty hats, switching them out one after the other and tossing them over his shoulder as each one is rejected in turn. Finally, Ryan settles on a black and white checkered newsboy cap, and Greta tucks Patrick’s bangs up under it as he drops into his seat between Ashlee and Brendon.

“Sorry, sorry,” Patrick huffs. He waves some papers around. “Fucking tone-deaf Frog got signed to Reprise, what the fuck.”

“Twenty seconds,” Jon says, a disembodied voice. The lights are hot and bright, and Joe can’t see anything beyond the teleprompter. Johnson, standing beside it, counts them in from five, the three, two, one just silent ticks of his fingers.

“Welcome to The Morning After,” Ashlee says into the camera. “Today, an epic battle between Joe and Patrick over how cool the keytar is—”

“That’s not in my notes,” Patrick says. He shuffles his papers, brow creased in a way that’s probably giving Greta spasms.

“Ash, the keytar is not cool,” Joe says.

“Well, hang on,” Patrick says, tugging on the brim of his hat, still frowning, and Brendon does his tell-me-more hands and Joe just relaxes into his seat, forgets about his fucking hair, because he’s got the best damn job on the planet.