Ronald Speirs x Nurse!Reader | Fluff + Angst
Warnings: light swearing, mentions of war, period-typical violence, and concentration camps. Suggestive scene, but no smut.
OK BESTIES, here goes nothing! This is my first time actually publishing a fanfic. Constructive criticism is welcome, just be kind about it. I cry easily lol.
Had to start of with one of my fave fandoms and characters… Ronald Speirs from BoB.*
*This story is based solely on the portrayal of the men in the 2001 HBO series, Band of Brothers. It is in no way meant to disparage the actual men of Easy Company or the other countless men and women who risked their lives in World War 2 and armed conflicts since then.
The ground was slick with mud and blood, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder. You knew you had gone too far—crossed the invisible line between safety and chaos—but when you heard the wounded cries from the treeline, hesitation hadn’t been an option.
Now, lying in the dirt with pain radiating from your leg, you regretted nothing.
You blinked against the haze of pain, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The sounds of battle had moved away, but not far enough. If you didn’t get out of here soon, someone would find you, and there was no guarantee it would be a friendly face.
A shadow fell over you, and for a moment, you thought you were done for. Then, sharp eyes met yours—Captain Ronald Speirs, his expression set in stone, his gun slung over his shoulder.
“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was low, edged with something that might have been anger—or fear.
You tried to push yourself up, but your body refused to cooperate. “Someone… needed help.”
Speirs knelt beside you, assessing the wound with practiced efficiency. A bullet had grazed your thigh, tearing through fabric and flesh. It wasn’t fatal, but the blood loss and shock were taking their toll.
“Yeah? And now someone needs to help you.” He pulled a bandage from his kit, his hands surprisingly gentle as he pressed it against the wound. “Damn foolish thing to do.”
You swallowed hard, wincing. “You’d have done the same.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he tore a strip from his own undershirt to reinforce the bandage. The rough fabric smelled like gunpowder and sweat, but it was warm, grounding.
“Think you can walk?” he asked, his voice softer now.
“I don’t—” You didn’t get the chance to answer before he was shifting, slipping an arm under your shoulders. In one swift motion, he lifted you against him, his grip firm but careful.
“Yes, I do.” His tone left no room for argument.
You rested your head against his shoulder for a moment, exhaustion winning out. “You’re softer than they say, Captain.”
A huff of amusement, barely there. “Don’t tell anyone.”
As he carried you back toward safety, every step measured and careful, the adrenaline finally wore off, and the pain set in. You bit your lip to keep from whimpering, but Speirs must have noticed because his hold on you tightened slightly.
“Almost there,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically reassuring.
The world tilted as he eased you behind the nearest cover. He set you down against the base of a tree, kneeling in front of you. His hands moved quickly, checking the wound and fixing the bandage. For a man known for his brutal efficiency in battle, he was remarkably gentle now.
“You should have waited for help,” he muttered.
“I couldn’t,” you admitted, swallowing against the dizziness. “I didn’t think. I just acted.”
Speirs sighed, his expression unreadable. He pulled his canteen from his belt and pressed it into your hands. “Drink.”
You obeyed, the water cool as it calmed your dry throat. He watched you, as if making sure you wouldn’t pass out, before finally speaking again. “As stupid as it was, that was pretty brave for a nurse.”
Your lips quirked in a small smile. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
He smirked, shaking his head. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
For a moment, the war seemed distant. The gunfire, the shouting, the chaos—it all faded into the background. All that remained was Speirs, his unwavering gaze locked on yours.
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
Foy came and went in a blur. You heard the story secondhand, from murmuring soldiers and adrenaline-fueled gossip.
“Ran straight through German fire like it was a goddamn Sunday stroll.”
“I thought he was dead for sure, but then he ran back.”
“What kind of man does that?”
The answer, of course, was Ronald Speirs.
When you finally saw him again, he was unfazed, as if he hadn’t just made history with his reckless courage. But you were furious.
You found him, standing near the remnants of a crumbling wall, speaking briefly with a soldier before turning to light a cigarette. He barely acknowledged you as you approached.
“Are you out of your mind?” The words burst from your lips, anger fueled by fear still coursing through your veins.
He exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette before giving you a sideways glance, brow furrowing slightly. “What?”
Your frustration mounted. “You ran through a field of fire. Straight into German machine guns! For God’s sake, do you even realize how close you came to—” You cut yourself off, because saying it out loud made it too real.
Speirs still looked puzzled, like he wasn’t sure what part of this was upsetting you so much. “It worked,” he said simply.
That was it. That was his entire justification.
You threw your hands up. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to lecture me about being reckless, about taking risks, and then turn around and pull something like this a few days later!”
His expression darkened, something raw flashing behind his eyes. “You put yourself in danger because you wanted to help. I put myself in danger because it was the only way to get the job done. I knew what I was getting into when I joined up.”
Speirs exhaled slowly, the smoke from his cigarette curling between you. His expression remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes—something just beneath the surface, like a battle he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight. You continued to meet his gaze in the tense silence.
“I don’t take unnecessary risks,” he finally said.
You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Unnecessary? You ran through a battlefield, Ron.”
“And if it didn’t work? If you were shot down in the middle of that field?” Your voice wavered, betraying you. “What then?”
More silence was the only answer.
You swallowed hard, pushing past the lump forming in your throat. “I came here knowing I’d see things I’d never be able to forget. I knew the horror, the bloodshed, the death—it’s why I’m here. To care for men like you. But it doesn’t mean I have to stand by and watch you take stupid risks and throw yourself away like your life doesn’t matter.”
Speirs shifted slightly, gaze never leaving yours. “I told you. I’m a soldier. I signed up to fight.”
“I signed up too,” you countered, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You don’t get to act like your choice is more justified than mine. That somehow you not caring about your life makes you more noble. I didn’t come here to watch from a distance. I came here to stand in the middle of it all. I came here for you — every single one of you.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension, thick and suffocating, crackled like a live wire between you.
Then, just when you thought he might retreat behind that iron-clad mask again, he sighed—a quiet, weary sound, as if something inside him was finally cracking.
His eyes softened, just enough for you to see it. “I care,” he repeated, the words rough, almost reluctant.
Your heart pounded at the admission, at the weight behind them.
But before you could say anything else, before you could make sense of what it all meant, he straightened, the shift almost imperceptible. The moment—this moment—was over.
“We should get back,” he said simply, his voice composed again.
You knew better than to push. But as he turned, you saw the way his fingers curled into a fist, the way his shoulders were just a little too tense.
And you knew—this wasn’t over.
——————————- TIME SKIP ——————————
The smell reached you before anything else. It was thick, rancid, almost suffocating, and it coiled in your lungs like poison. The men of Easy Company had smelled death before—on the battlefield, in the foxholes, in the ruins of war-torn towns. But this was different.
This was something deeper. Something rotting.
You followed the line of men as they advanced cautiously through the trees, rifles lowered, steps careful. No one spoke. The only sound was the distant creak of wind against rusted metal and the occasional sharp caw of crows overhead.
The barbed wire fence, twisted and rusted, stretching in jagged lines across the landscape. Beyond it, skeletal figures moved sluggishly, wrapped in tattered rags, their hollow eyes darting toward you with something between fear and disbelief.
Your stomach turned violently, a cold shudder crawling up your spine.
The closer you got, the worse it became. Piles of bodies stacked like discarded trash. Wooden barracks that smelled of disease, filth, and despair. And the prisoners—if they could still be called that—stared at you with faces so sunken, so gaunt, that they barely looked human.
You had spent the entire war treating wounds, doing everything in your power to put men back together after battle had torn them apart. But this—this wasn’t battle. This was cruelty.
The men of Easy stood frozen, silent in the face of what they were witnessing.
Winters was the first to move, stepping forward with careful but purposeful steps. He reached the fence, eyes scanning the scene, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle tick.
Leibgott was the first to break the silence. “What the fuck is this?” His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking.
A prisoner—the closest one to the fence—staggered forward, barely able to hold himself up. “Amerikaner?” His voice was barely a whisper, raw and weak.
Winters nodded once, his voice steady. “Yes.”
And then the man fell to his knees, his skeletal fingers gripping the dirt, his shoulders shaking as a broken sob wracked his frail body.
That was all it took. The others moved. Prisoners stumbled toward the fence, some falling before they could even reach it, their bodies too weak to sustain the effort. The sight of them—so thin, so hollowed out by starvation and suffering—made your throat tighten painfully.
A hand touched your arm, and you turned to find Winters watching you. “Go,” he said softly. “Help them.”
You nodded, already moving.
You had seen wounded men before. You had seen limbs mangled by gunfire, men drowning in their own blood, bodies broken beyond repair. But you had never seen this.
It wasn’t just physical. The damage here ran deeper.
You knelt beside a prisoner—an older man, his ribs so pronounced beneath his thin skin that he hardly looked real. His lips were cracked, his fingers trembling as he clutched the corner of his tattered uniform. His breath came in shallow gasps.
You uncapped your canteen and held it to his lips, tilting it gently. He drank in weak, desperate gulps, some of it spilling down his chin. You wiped it away with your sleeve, ignoring the sting in your own eyes.
“Easy,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Nearby, the men worked quickly. Spears had been set down, rations passed through the barbed wire, blankets stripped from packs and draped over shivering shoulders. But there were too many.
You turned, scanning the area for Winters. He stood near the fence, speaking with a civilian—one of the local townspeople, a man who looked like he had been dragged here against his will.
“Major,” you called, pushing yourself up and striding toward him.
Winters turned to face you, the strain evident in his expression. “What is it?”
“We need a plan,” you said, your voice tight. “Some of these people can’t even stand. They need food, medical attention—”
“We’re doing what we can,” Winters said, his tone even.
“It’s not enough,” you pressed. “We don’t have the supplies for this.”
Winters nodded, his gaze shifting back to the prisoners. His jaw clenched. “We’ll call in support. Get the word out to command.”
You hesitated. “And the Germans?”
Winters’ expression hardened.
You had both seen the townspeople lingering near the camp, some watching in horrified silence, others looking away entirely. They knew. Maybe they hadn’t been the ones holding the whips, maybe they hadn’t pulled the triggers, but they had known.
“They’re already being rounded up,” Winters said, his voice cold.
A flicker of something dark and furious burned in your chest, but you pushed it down. There was too much to do.
You turned back to the prisoners.
No time to think about justice. Not yet.
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
Later that night, you tried to keep busy. You had moved from one weakened body to another, doing what you could, but it was never enough. You could still hear their cries, still see the haunted eyes of those who had survived.
Now, standing outside the makeshift HQ, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your entire body thrummed with something you couldn’t name.
It boiled inside you, a violent, sickening thing that made you want to scream, to cry, to throw up, to kill the men who did this with your bare hands just to feel something other than helplessness.
Footsteps approached, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was Speirs.
He stopped beside you, silent for a long moment.
Then—“You need to breathe.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, your throat tight. “Don’t tell me to breathe.”
Speirs didn’t flinch. “You want to hit something?”
“Yes,” you admitted through gritted teeth.
You turned to face him, and for a moment, you actually considered it. But there was no mockery in his expression, no amusement. Just quiet understanding.
You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I need something good.”
Speirs watched you, his expression unreadable. Then, before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him to you.
For a moment, he let you. Let you pour every ounce of rage and frustration and need into the kiss. Then, with a quiet groan, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Not like this.” His voice was rough, strained. “Not when you’re hurting.”
Your breathing was uneven. “Ron—”
His hands found your face, his touch uncharacteristically soft. “When it happens, I want it to be because we’re choosing each other. Not because of the war. Not because of anger.”
You swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Come here.” He pulled you into his arms.
You buried your face against his chest, his warmth steady, solid.
“Stay?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said before following you inside.
And as you drifted off, his arms still around you, Speirs stayed awake.
Trying to understand what the hell he was supposed to do with this thing growing between you.
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
The official word came down: Hold positions. Hitler was dead. The Nazis surrendered. The war in Europe was over.
Some of the men cheered, others just stood in stunned silence. The weight of years of fighting, of constant survival, finally settled onto their shoulders, leaving them exhausted, relieved, and restless all at once.
You barely had time to process it yourself before Easy Company made their way up the winding roads to Kehlsteinhaus—Hitler’s prized Eagle’s Nest.
The view was breathtaking, mountains stretching endlessly beyond the horizon. But it wasn’t the luxury or the stolen wealth that stuck with you. It was the absurdity of it.
All this opulence, all this grandeur, and yet it had been built by men who let their fellow humans starve in camps not far from here.
You tried not to dwell on it. Tried to enjoy the moment with the people around you.
But Speirs? He disappeared almost immediately.
“Where the hell did Speirs go?” you muttered, arms crossed as you stood with Lipton and a few of the other nurses.
Lipton smirked knowingly. “Scavenging.”
It was well known that Speirs had some seriously sticky fingers. From pieces of jewelry to entire silverware sets. The man had plundered his way through half of Europe in his spare time.
“He actually asked us for some help,” Lip said, rubbing the back of his neck, his amusement evident.
Before Lipton could answer, one of the nurses—Hannah—giggled beside you. “He came back with a dress. An actual dress.”
You stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Lip confirmed, suppressing a grin. “Found it in one of the houses. Brought it back and asked if we could, uh… ‘make it work.’”
A slow, stunned smile crept onto your lips. “Ronald Speirs found a dress for me?”
Hannah nodded. “It’s actually beautiful. Little wrinkled, but it’ll do. And he asked us to get you ready tonight.”
Your stomach flipped, warmth creeping into your chest.
Speirs wasn’t the kind of man who said things outright. He didn’t do grand confessions or flowery words. But this? This was more than enough.
You turned to Lipton. “And what’s your role in all this?”
He chuckled. “Helping him set up a dinner. Well, his version of a dinner.”
Lip gave you a knowing look. “You’ll see.”
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
The sun was beginning to set when Hannah and the others finished their work.
You stared at yourself in the broken mirror of the commandeered bedroom, running your hands down the fabric of the deep blue dress. It wasn’t extravagant, but it fit well enough, and after years of nothing but military fatigues, it felt strange—good, but strange.
Your hair was pinned back as best as it could be, and when you stepped outside, the fresh mountain air sent a pleasant chill across your skin.
Speirs was waiting just outside one of the empty halls, hands in his pockets, his usual composed expression in place. But when he looked at you, you swore you saw something shift—something unreadable but warm.
“Didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” he said, tilting his head slightly.
You smirked. “You went through the trouble of looting it. Figured I should.”
He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over you. “Looks good on you.”
Your heart skipped a beat, but you masked it with a teasing grin. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation.
The “dinner” was set up on a balcony overlooking the valley. A bottle of wine—also pilfered—sat on a small table along with a few plates of whatever food Lipton had managed to scrounge up from the kitchens.
It was simple. No candles, no extravagant decorations. But it was real.
Speirs pulled out a chair for you before sitting across from you, pouring the wine without a word.
You swirled the glass, watching him as he leaned back slightly, eyes on the horizon. “So,” you mused, “was this your idea, or did Lipton bully you into it?”
Speirs smirked faintly. “I don’t think Lip has ever bullied anyone. He did help me put together a plan.”
Your chest ached at the thought of him putting effort into this. “Why?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a sip of wine, the soft breeze ruffling his hair. Then, finally—“Because you deserved something good.”
The lump in your throat nearly stole your words.
You reached across the table, fingers brushing against his. “So do you.”
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
The room was dimly lit when you reached it later that night.
You had barely closed the door when Speirs caught your wrist, tugging you gently against him. His hands found your waist, steady but certain, his forehead resting against yours.
You inhaled sharply. “Ron—”
“I want this,” he murmured, voice low. “I need you to know that.”
Your fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Then don’t stop me this time.”
His lips crashed into yours, the composure he always wore finally breaking. His hands were everywhere—trailing down your back, pressing you flush against him as he walked you back toward the bed.
It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate.
For once, neither of you were caught in the middle of a war.
For once, you were just two people, rediscovering what it meant to be alive.
Every touch, every kiss, was unspoken confirmation—I’m here. I want this.
When he finally laid you down, hovering above you with a rare softness in his eyes, he hesitated. “Are you sure?”
You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down. “Ron, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
And so he kissed you again—deeply, reverently.
This was no battlefield, no reckless moment of desperation.
Speirs remained awake long after you had drifted off, your body curled against his.
He traced idle patterns against your bare shoulder, his mind restless.
He had spent years convincing himself that attachments were dangerous, that caring too much would only lead to loss.
And for the first time in a long, long while, he didn’t feel the need to run.
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
The waiting was the worst part. The war was over in Europe, but still raging elsewhere.
Days passed with no word on whether Easy Company would be sent to the Pacific. Some of the men started relaxing, letting the weight of the war finally ease off their shoulders. Others remained on edge, unwilling to believe the fight was over.
Talbert, lucky bastard, won the lottery and was getting sent home.
You found him sitting on a crate outside one of the barracks, scrawling another letter to the girl he never stopped writing to. Smirking, you leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “She’s gonna be sick of hearing from you by the time you get back.”
Talbert grinned, unfazed. “Not a chance.”
You sat beside him, nudging his boot with yours. “Tell me the truth, Talbert. You gonna marry this girl?”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d propose the second I stepped off the train if I thought it wouldn’t scare her half to death.”
You nudged him again, teasing. “Oh, I think she’s stuck with you at this point. No way she wrote back this many times without knowing what she was getting into.”
Talbert grinned. “Yeah… yeah, maybe.”
You smiled, but deep down, your stomach twisted. You were happy for him—you really were—but as you watched him tuck away the letter, reality crept in.
What if Easy was reassigned? What if the war wasn’t really over?
And worse—what if they went to the Pacific, and you didn’t?
The thought nearly stole your breath.
Talbert must’ve caught something in your expression because his grin faded slightly. “You okay?”
You forced a smirk. “Yeah, just thinking about home.”
He let it go, but you knew he didn’t buy it.
That night, you found Speirs sitting outside one of the barracks, smoking, his Thompson resting against the wooden steps. The sight of him—so steady, so composed—made something in you snap.
You sat beside him, exhaling sharply. “I’m scared.”
He didn’t look at you right away, just flicked his cigarette into the dirt. “Of what?”
You swallowed, staring at the dark horizon. “Of getting left behind. Of you all going to the Pacific without me.”
Speirs was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally—“You think I’d let that happen?”
You turned to him, brows knitting together. “Ron, it’s not exactly up to you.”
“No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, “But this is.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small gold ring, the metal glinting faintly under the dim light.
It wasn’t extravagant—simple, a little worn—but it was undoubtedly an engagement ring.
And, knowing Speirs, it was also undoubtedly looted.
Your heart pounded. “Ron—”
“Whether I have to jump into Japan or not,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering, “I know one thing for certain—I’m not letting you leave Europe without my last name.”
A laugh—breathless, disbelieving—escaped you. “You stole an engagement ring?”
He smirked. “You expected anything else?”
You stared at him, your chest aching in the best possible way.
Then, slowly, you reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his. “You better mean this, Speirs.”
His grip tightened slightly. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
Two days later, the entire company gathered in the open field just outside the barracks. The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in a soft golden light.
An army chaplain stood at the front, flipping through his worn Bible, waiting patiently. Winters stood beside you, adjusting his uniform, looking strangely at ease in his role.
And then there was Speirs.
He stood tall in his formal uniform, his polished boots planted firmly in the grass, looking every bit the legend he had become. Beside him, Lipton stood as his best man, hands clasped behind his back, a proud but amused smile on his face.
You, on the other hand, were adjusting the fabric of your dress—another ‘find’ from one of the local homes —fitted as best as you could manage with the help of your fellow nurses. It wasn’t perfect, but it was clean, and for the first time in a long time, you felt soft again.
Winters cleared his throat beside you. “Ready?”
You nodded, taking his offered arm. “You’re sure about this, Major? I mean I know I don’t exactly have family here to walk me down the aisle, but I could always walk alo…,” he didn’t give you the chance to finish.
Winters gave you a rare, soft smile. “Family isn’t just blood. It’s my honor to do this.”
Your throat tightened. You squeezed his arm gently. “Thank you.”
Then, the two of you walked forward.
Speirs’ gaze locked onto you immediately, and for the first time in your entire relationship—if you could call it that—you swore you saw something like awe in his eyes.
When you reached him, Winters gave you a small nod before stepping aside.
Speirs eyed your dress, his smirk barely hidden. “Where’d you get that?”
You smirked back. “You’re not the only one with scavenging skills, Captain.”
Lipton huffed a quiet laugh beside him.
Speirs chuckled, shaking his head slightly. Then, his expression softened. “You look beautiful.”
Your heart flipped, warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
The chaplain cleared his throat, and the ceremony began.
It was quick, simple, but perfect. When Speirs slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were steady, his grip sure.
Then, as soon as the chaplain pronounced you husband and wife, Speirs didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you to him and kissed you, slow and deep, his hands curling around your waist like he wasn’t letting go.
Applause and cheers erupted from the men, Lipton giving an approving nod while Luz whooped loud enough for half the barracks to hear.
But none of that mattered.
Because as you pulled back, catching your breath, Speirs met your gaze, and in that moment, you knew
No matter what came next, no matter where they were sent—
——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————
Colonel Sink signed off on the marriage paperwork the next morning, making everything official in the event Speirs and the boys were reassigned.
But, as fate would have it, the war ended before that could happen.
Easy Company wasn’t sent to the Pacific.
They went home. Together.
And Ronald Speirs, the man everyone swore was made of steel, returned with his wife.
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