Did these people [in academia who claim that they are not exposed to disabled people] realize that when they encountered the work of Rosa Luxemburg (who limped), Antonio Gramsci (a crippled, dwarfed hunchback), John Milton (blind), Alexander Pope (dwarfed hunchback), George Gordon Brown (club foot), [Jorge] Luis Borges, James Joyce, and James Thurber (all blind), Harriet Martineau (deaf), Toulouse-Lautrec (spinal deformity), Frida Kahlo (osteomyelitis), Virginia Woolf (lupus), they were meeting people with disabilities? Do filmgoers realize when they watch the films of James Ford, Raoul Walsh, André de Toth, Nicholas Ray, Tay Garnett and William Wyler that these directors were all physically impaired? Why is it when one looks these figures in dictionaries of biography or encyclopedias that their physical disabilities are usually not mentioned – unless the disability is seen as related to creativity, as in the case of the blind bard Milton or the deaf Beethoven? There is an ableist notion at work here that anyone who creates a canonical work must be physically able. Likewise, why do we not know that Helen Keller was a socialist, a member of the Wobblies, the International Workers of the World, and an advocate of free love? We assume that our ‘official’ mascots of disability are nothing else but their disability.
Lennard J. Davis, Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body
I really want to wonder…Is the wizarding world of Harry Potter really that blind?
Now, before you get all “What in Merlin’s saggy left **** do you mean?” Let me explain.
Harry Potter, a boy with the lightning scar on his forehead, wearing clothes that didn’t fit him, very thin, scrawny, small, on the train to Hogwarts.
I’m sure that Nurse Promfery would have noticed malnutrition when Harry continuously come into her care.
I’m sure Fred and George must’ve of noticed the fact that Harry’s bedroom door was locked, with only a cat-flap for food. When they opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and notice how lived in it looked, with a small sign that was written in messy 6 year old handwriting with a red crayon “Harry’s Room.”
Ron must of have noticed the bars on Harry’s window, that his owl is locked in a cage, how he would flinch if someone moved to fast towards him.
Hermione must of noticed that harry was always unnaturally thin, and began to gain his weight back at Hogwarts feasts. How his essays seemed too simple, like he was holding back some sort of cleverness. How he dreaded going back to the Durselys. That he said “Are you mad? All those times I could’ve died and I didn’t manage it? They’ll be furious…” yet it didn’t seem like a joke?
Percy should have noticed that 11 year old Harry stared at the food like a starving man, like he hadn’t seen food for days.
The professors should have noticed that his grades were failing in subjects, yet looked like he was holding back. (Harry was a smart shit, fite me)
Molly Weaselly should of questioned the fact that Harry did not expect presents for his first Christmas at Hogwarts.
The Gryffindor Quidditch Team should have noticed how harry doesn’t like to show his back to people.
Rebeus Hagrid should have noticed how Harry was given the floor and a very thin blanket when he first met him.
I’m sure people would have noticed the 10 years worth of neglect and abuse.
So why did nobody say anything?
Also, I’m looking at Albus Dumbledore, because there is no reason to place a child in an abusive home.
El hombre de la sonrisa ante el pelotón de fusilamiento
El hombre de la sonrisa ante el pelotón de fusilamiento era un miembro destacado de la resistencia francesa durante la ocupación nazi en la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Detenido por el Ejército alemán, Georges Blind fue ‘sentenciado’ a muerte en octubre de 1944 tras negarse a declarar. El activista se enfrentó con una sonrisa ante el pelotón de fusilamiento que lo iba a ejecutar, aunque solo fue un simulacro para lograr su declaración.
Summary: A nurse survives a the sinking of one of the destroyers and is picked up by the crew of the Moonstone. Collins x reader.
A/N: It’s quite intense in places so if you're looking for pure fluff you better keep scrolling! George also features quite heavily in this fic, just to warn y’all.
“I think they’re dead Dad.” The voice seemed to drift
towards you as if it were borne on the wind. You were aware of a soothing
rocking motion, someone speaking and little else.
“Here, give me tha’ rope.” Another person, Scottish by their
accent, spoke. You didn’t really care, you were so dazed.
There was a bump and a shake as wood struck wood and you
finally opened your eyes. There was endless blue above you crowned by a golden
sun, it was beautiful. Your vision was bleary so you couldn’t make out much
else, but there was a dark green blob next to you and a much larger white and
brown one on your other side.
“The lass is awake.” The Scot called. It slowly dawned on
you that you were the lass he spoke of. “Here, be careful. Take my hand.” He continued
more quietly. You looked in the direction of the voice, it had come from a
blond man in blue who was leaning over a railing on the small white boat.
You sat up, becoming suddenly, uncomfortably aware that you
were on the sea, floating on the top of a chunk of wooden table, and you were
not alone. The green blob was, or rather had been, a man, a soldier, a boy. His
lips were blue, his face pale and lifeless. One hand went to your mouth to
stifle a cry and the other you used to push yourself up. This was a bad move.
The wood beneath you shifted and instantly you were falling. The water was cold
but you barely noticed: memories were flooding back, of the ship, the
explosion, the screams of men into the blackness of night. Sights like that
would take the fight out of even the bravest, and this had only been your first
deployment. Would it be so bad to let go and sink down to the watery depths of
the channel like all those others?
Choice was removed from you as a hand wrapped round your
wrist and pulled you up. Your head broke through the water and you gasped for
“Come on.” The warm voice came again, and you did, clawing
your way up the ladder on the side of the little vessel. It was hard work, your
muscles were achy and tired and you were weighed down with a nurse’s uniform of
a blouse, heavy wool skirt and a cotton apron.
You pulled yourself onto the deck of the boat, still
breathing heavily and lay there.
“Is there any use getting the man?” The first voice asked.
The other sighed in response.
“Hypothermia got him, Peter.” A third voice joined the
conversation, he sounded Cornish or thereabouts, and something told you he was
older than the other two.
“Best leave ‘im there lad.” said the Scottish man, he was
the closest to you, and it was him who helped, or rather pulled you to your
“Son, get her a blanket.” The older man from the cabin
“Let me take that.” The Scot said, taking the lapels of the
soldier’s jacket you only now remembered you were wearing. It was sodden and
salt-stained but it still felt wrong to remove it. You shook your head and wrapped
it tighter around you.
You began to shake then, your body rocking with a wave of
sobs as hot, angry tears filled your eyes.
“He’s dead. He’s dead. He shouldn’t,” you involuntarily inhaled,
“he-he shouldn’t be dead.” You squeezed out between sobs. A blanket was placed
on your shoulders and the blond man in front of you pulled it closer about you.
“It’s my fault.” You wailed.
“Shhh, now.” The man in blue replied as his arms surrounded
you, pulling you into his chest. You let him hold you but continued:
“The-the man, he g-gave me his jacket.” You spluttered. “If
he’d kept it he’d be alive.”
“Don’ think like tha’. You can’t possibly know what might
have happened.” he was speaking softly and gently rubbing circles on your back.
“I should have stayed in England. I should have stayed at
home.” a fresh wave of tears fell from your eyes at the thought of the home you
“You’ll be home soon,” the Scot cooed “You’ll be home soon.”
That made you feel a bit better. “When you get home, what’s the first thing
you’ll do?” It was obvious what he was doing, he was trying to distract you
from the terrible situation you were in, and it worked. You sniffled but were
able to speak with surprising normalcy.
“I’ll go to back to my father’s bakery, Y/L/N and Sons in St
Albans. I’ll bake the cakes like I always used to, with the radio on loud, up
to my elbows in flour.” a small smile threatened to break out across your face
at the thought of that.
There was silence for some time, punctuated with the
occasional call of a seagull or bluster of wind. All the while the man held
you; and it was only when your breaths had slowed to normal, that he pulled
away to hold you at arm’s length to survey your face. You returned the favour
and took in a pointed nose, a friendly smile and intense blue eyes that, under
different circumstances, would have left you weak at the knees.
“I’m Jack, Jack Collins.” He said, softly.
“I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” The two of you shook hands. “Would
you like some tea?”
Hands wrapped around a steaming cup of Earl Grey and safely
cloistered in the cabin below deck, you felt a great deal better. You were
still damp and every so often you would hiccup but for the most part you were
yourself again and were back to asking questions:
“So where’s your plane?” you asked, from behind a curtain of
steam rising from your tea. Your companion chuckled lightly.
“In the drink, I’m afraid.” Jack answered. “So, where’s your
surgery?” the pilot countered, his eyes darting to your apron, where the red
cross that singled you out as a nurse was printed. No doubt he had intended it
to be light hearted, but you were not quite ready to think about last night.
You took a sip of tea and braced yourself.
“HMS Wakeful was torpedoed off the coast of Dunkirk.”
you deadpanned with glazed eyes. Jack appeared apologetic, and you forgave him
instantly, but you couldn’t help but tear up slightly.
“Excuse me, Miss.” Came a voice at the door, it was a boy,
with neat blond hair and high cheekbones.
“Yes, um, Peter is it?” You replied. The boy nodded.
“My friend George, he-” a flash of anger passed over his
face. “He fell down the stairs and hit his head, could you have a look
at him, please?”
“Give ‘er a minute for christ’s sake!” Jack interjected,
with a surprising amount of concern in his tone.
“No, Mr Collins, it’s quite alright.” You gathered yourself
and followed Peter to where the patient had been placed.
You knelt by the dark haired boy and inspected him.
“Can you hear me, George?” You asked, marking the blood on
the makeshift pillow beneath his head.
There was a second of silence then “Yes.” he answered.
“Can you see me?”
“No…No.” Worry crept into his voice. You took one of the
boy’s hands in yours and gave a gentle squeeze. You bent your head close to
that of the boy’s and peered into his left eye, then took a measure of his
heart rate with a finger pressed on the inside of his wrist.
“You’ll be alright, George. I’m a nurse, I know what I’m
doing.” you stood, took off the blanket and the dead boy’s jacket, and tied up
your still damp hair.
“George, I need to get you to a bed, can you walk do you
think?” You asked, motioning for Jack to help him up. The pilot had been
looking at you but quickly bent to his task.
The boy was badly injured. He clearly had a terrible
concussion which had triggered his brain to swell, it was pressing up on the
inside of his skull, preventing proper function of his ocular nerve. His brain
would only continue to increase in size unless something could be done. He
needed to be put on a ventilator and be dehydrated if he was to survive, but
you were at sea. How could he be put on a ventilator if you were miles from a
hospital? And even a fully stocked medical kit was unlikely to hold a strong
enough diuretic to help him, so what could be done?
“Peter,” you took the young man’s arm and led him out of
earshot of the dark haired boy. “Your friend has a concussion, a bad one. His
brain is swelling. I can’t lie to you, he is in a bad way, but there is still
hope. I need you to find a diuretic.” The poor boy looked absolutely terrified
and clearly had no idea where a diuretic would be found. “Caffeine pills
perhaps?” You prompted.
“I’ll ask my Dad.” He nodded, turned and dashed up the
Following George and Jack to the cabin, where the boy was
lying, you explained: “I need you to induce hyperventilation, it’s a big word,
I know.” you tried to inject some levity to the situation, you heard Collins
utter a quiet “ha”, but paid no mind to it. “You have to breathe quickly and
shallowly, George.” The blind boy nodded and sucked in a breath.
“Aye, like tha’, George.” Collins encouraged, his gaze fixed
Your next task was to pile blankets on top of the patient,
with the hope of causing him to sweat. Collins helped you find as many as
possible and when you were done, only George’s head protruded from a heap of
Tired, you sank to the floor and crossed your legs beneath
you. You glanced up at Jack then and were surprised to find him already looking
back at you.
“What are you looking at?” you questioned, your eyebrows
knitted together in confusion.
“Just you.” your lips parted and your eyes widened. The
pilot was smirking down at you.
“Miss Y/L/N.” you jumped and your head spun so fast you
cricked your neck.
“Um, yes Peter?” you asked while rubbing your neck. You
heard Collin’s chuckle and rolled your eyes.
“Here: caffeine pills.” the young man explained, holding out
a battered pack of tablets. You rose, took the pills and went to George’s
“George, you’re going to have to take these dry, we can’t
give you any water.”
“I-I don’t think I can.”
“I know,” you studied the boy’s face, noting the lines of
stress in his forehead. “But you have to try.”
The packet said the maximum dose was two tablets; you
disregarded this, popping out three and placing them in George’s hand one at a
time. It was clearly not easy for the lad, but after many attempts and a few
fits of coughing he got the first pill down, then the second, then the third.
“Well done George. I’ll be back in half an hour with two
more.” You were worried about the boy, but impressed, he’d remained calm
throughout a very stressful series of events; but, you remembered, his treatment
was far from over.
You did as you had said, administering the remaining
caffeine tablets, whilst trying not to blush whenever you caught sight of the
blond pilot. His strong Scottish accent and dimpled boyish grin certainly
didn’t help in this regard.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze, you were
exhausted, but kept to your task of looking after George. Later there was the
small matter of a Heinkel bomber and leaking oil from a sinking ship, but you
knew that it was not your place to be scared anymore, god knows, you’d come
back from the brink once today already. You stayed with George whilst Peter and
Jack pulled petrol-covered men from the water. It was just as the first of the
rescued men were thumping down the stairs that George spoke up after a long period
“Y/N, I think-I think I can see something.” he breathed.
“What can you see?” you asked hurriedly.
“Just light.” you held your hand above his open eyes,
displaying two fingers. “Wait, I think there’s something there…Is it a hand?”
you let out an unashamed whoop of joy and rushed from the cabin, through the
press of sodden soldiers.
“Hey! Jack, Peter, Mr Dawson!” you called from behind a
gaggle of men. Peter was the first to reach you, his eyes wide with worry. He
quickly calmed when he saw your smile.
“What is it?”
“It’s George, he’s started to see again. It’s a really good
sign. The pressure seems to have gone down somewhat, allowing him to see
again.” you rushed. “He’s out of the woods, Peter!” the young man let out a
relieved bark of a laugh, hugged you and dashed down to the cabin.
“So the lad’ll live then?” came Jack’s familiar voice. You
nodded keenly. “He’s alive because of you. You saved him, Y/N.” his voice was
deeper, huskier with seriousness. Your grin faded then, as you looked at the
pilot. Again you nodded, understanding what he was really doing: Jack Collins
was absolving you of the death of the soldier, and it meant so much to you.
Up on deck it was very cold as the west wind was blowing
with great force. The gusts cut through your thin blouse and the apron, making
you shiver. You refused to let the cold affect you and instead pushed your way
to the prow of the little vessel. It had been turned about and now pressed for
“Here.” Jack had followed you over to the railing and was
placing his blue RAF jacket around your shoulders.
“Are you sure?” you asked, though in truth it was just a courtesy,
he knew you were cold and you knew he wanted you protected.
“Aye.” Jack smiled.
It was dark when the boat finally docked. There were
hundreds and hundreds of other little ships all along the quayside and out of
each of them the boys were pouring. After the Moonstone’s cargo of
soldiers had disembarked, you sent Peter to find an ambulance and prepared
George to be moved to a hospital. You did this by writing a quick note of what
had caused his injury, the medication you had given him and the timings of all
of this, then changing over to a fresh bandage for his head. George was
transferred to a stretcher and put in the back of an ambulance, Mr Dawson sent
Peter with him. Jack was with you as you waved goodbye to the pair.
“I suppose it’s goodbye then.” The man said as the vehicle
rounded a corner and the sirens became quieter and quieter.
“Yes, it is.” As much as you wanted to stay, you knew you
had to return to your home base in Portsmouth. You said a short goodbye to Mr
Dawson and followed the floods of men to what you presumed was a train station.
The streets were crowded and you were jostled by the men all
around you, you understood why, they were all desperate to get inside a warm
train, so you didn’t begrudge it, but Jack did. Mr Collins quickly took you by
the arm and used his taller frame to cut through the throng much more
effectively. The third train you walked past had the sign “WEST-Portsmouth,
Dorset” illuminated. You patted him on the shoulder and pointed to the train
you knew you had to get on. Jack stopped and turned to face you.
“I never got round to asking you,” you piped up, “what will
you do now you’re back?”
“Probably go tae the pub, me an’ Farriers always did after a
mission.” you were surprised to note some sadness in his face, he certainly
wasn’t smiling. “It’d be a shame to break the tradition.”
“Yes, yes it would.” you nodded. “What about when the war’s
over, what will you do then?” you asked with a lighter tone.
“Oh,” he smiled sheepishly, “Ah dinnae ken.” (I don’t know.)
The Scottish phrase made you smile; it was close to the English so you understood.
The pair of you lapsed back into a tense silence then, as
you tried not to glance too long at his eyes or worse, his lips.
“Un tuh-r oo ghawnh pawk?” Jack asked, popping the quiet
bubble you’d been trapped in. You could make out that the Gaelic was a question
from the tone but besides that you had no idea. He inched almost imperceptibly
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.” he was looking
intently down at you, lips parted. You noticed his gaze flick down to your
mouth, then back to your eyes. You hadn’t realised just how blue his eyes were
until that moment. Your breath hitched.
“Oh, I think you do.” he whispered, only just audibly, his
face so close you could feel his warm breath on your cheek. You were petrified
and exhilarated all at once. Thoughts flew through your mind faster than a
Spitfire, then you stopped thinking at all.
He was kissing you. You were kissing him. One of his hands
was on the small of your back, you could feel the heat of it seeping into you,
the other rested on one of your cheeks. His lips were very soft you noticed.
There were soldiers all around you, some were laughing, you didn’t care in the
slightest: they weren’t real, only he was.
The kiss stayed simple and gentle. It ended far earlier than
you wanted it to though, but then, you could have quite happily kissed Jack
Collins for eternity.
Jack reached up to slide a lock of hair behind your ear.
“You have very pretty eyes, you know, Y/N.” he intoned.
“Come find me, after the war.” you asked, unable to keep a
pleading tone out of your voice.
“I will.” Jack said. Neither of you knew when the war would
end, nor even if it would, but you could sense that his promise was solemn, so
you allowed yourself to be put on the train. He stayed on the platform and
waved you off, neither of you smiled. Before long the train had gathered speed
and you were flying through the English countryside. You were home.
The war had ended two weeks ago and it seemed as though the
whole world was rejoicing. The sun was casting god rays through the glass
windows of your father’s shop front, the people all but skipped by in the
street and the wireless was belting out Billie Holiday. Everything felt right,
almost everything, that is. You sighed and set back to your work, picking up a
piping bag full of pink icing and going back to work on the cake on the worktop
in front of you.
You hummed along to the song, “I’ll be seeing you”, as you
worked and only looked up when the bell rang, signalling that a customer had
entered the shop.
“Just a moment.” you called, wiping the icing off your hands
with your baker’s apron.
You turned and gasped. It was Jack. The clothes had changed,
now he was dressed in a smart black suit, a well-fitting shirt and a blue tie,
but the smile was the same, dimpled and warm. You dashed over and threw your
arms about him.
“You found me.” you breathed into his chest, finally