#petitfromage

[gcsticulatingwildly]

We're a group. WE'RE A TEAM. From the President and Leo on through, we're a team. We WIN together, we LOSE together. We celebrate and we mourn together. And defeats are softened and VICTORIES sweeter because we did them together... You're my guys and I'm yours... and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.

ind. and private roleplay blogs for Josiah Bartlet, Abbey Bartlet, Josh Lyman, and Donna Moss from The West Wing as loved by Levi, Sierra, Ellie, and Callie respectively

[seaborns]

petitfromage replied to your post “do you wanna talk about what just happened in there” leo wants to...”

CHECK IN WITH HIS HUSBAND I’m crying ������

he is constantly doing stuff like that for jed for real!! it makes me so emotional

[bertievi]

@petitfromage

State visits were exhausting affairs, demanding and expensive for what they were, though there was no higher ambassador for the United Kingdom than the monarch themselves, which was a whole lot more pressure than Bertie ever wanted to think about.

Arriving at the White House in state cars and with his small entourage of officials and settling into their residence for their fleeting visit, he was dreading the dinner that was to follow. Emerging from his room in a dinner suit rather than any of his uniforms, he glanced around for any indication that they were ready, the dining hall even within view as he peered in its direction.

[bonhcmme]

Josiah Bartlet for the other character meme? :)

or, get proof I occasionally dabble in other fandoms

You’re upset. He knew exactly who the voice at the back of his mind belonged to, and what it was going to say next. Don’t get on the bike.

He got on the bike.

For one thing, he had every right to be upset. And for another— well, did there have to be a second reason? As much as Jed Bartlet loved and respected his wife, even listened to her once in a while, he needed the fresh air. To get the stench out of his nostrils if he could.

Legs pumped relentlessly, unheeding of the ache of taxed muscles. He wasn’t running. It was just better for everybody if he wasn’t around people while his blood ran this hot. He’d been in the deadly serious game of politics for years now. He knew not to let things slip under his skin; even the smallest sliver could turn into an infection. But this time he hadn’t been the target. It was like watching someone kick a puppy, only it was wearing your granddaughter’s face.

It was moments like these that made his faith waver— in humanity more than God, but both were vulnerable— and for that he hated it. Faith was at his core. No one should get to cut his moorings like that, least of all a load of hate-filled hypocrites.

It was moments like what followed that made him remember. More often than not, his wife was right.

“I don’t need the hospital,” he insisted while secret service crawled all over him like ants.

“You need an x-ray, sir.”

“To tell us what we already know? That I don’t need a hospital?”

“To make sure it’s not broken, sir.”

“I can walk on it. See?”

“Yes, we can see that, sir, but— we’re going to have to call the First Lady.”

Jed grimaced. “Of course you are. And she’ll make sure I get an x-ray whether I want one or not. Well, go on then. Let’s do this. I’ve still got a country to run.”

[bonhcmme]

idowhatimust replied

(( as for why he’s called Jed, i don’t think they ever explain… but in the flashbacks he has of meeting Mrs. Landingham, it seems everyone has called him that ever since he was young, even his dad. IDK, sorry ))

Thanks, this does help!! (Also, you continue to reveal excellent taste in media.)

petitfromage replied

I think Jed is a standard nickname for Josiah. Although neither of those names are very popular lol

Ahh see, I would’ve expected it to be short for Jedediah but not Josiah.

[indetrit]

“whose blood is that?”

( x )

         He’d seen it everywhere but, then, it was ALWAYS everywhere.     When he looked at someone; in the footsteps they left behind. But     it was never REAL-- or, at least, it was never real in that MOMENT.

         So, why...? The man looks from her to the ground between them,     then to his own feet. His shoes were redder than they used to be. It     caked the ground, his hands, his ARMS-- Robin felt something clog     up the track of his throat, something NOT iron. It isn’t his. He doesn’t hurt.

         “I don’t-- I don’t know--”

@petitfromage