Hear me out... Easy Company men falling asleep on you after a tiring day 🙏😔
😎 reallll. Here's some sleepy times for:
Babe Heffron x Reader, Eugene Roe x Reader x Ralph Spina, and Ron Speirs x Reader x Carwood Lipton
[BABE HEFFRON x READER]
"Well, it sure seems like it's quite easy to keep you happy."
Babe quirked a languid brow at you while he continued to smoke his cigarette, bringing his cup of watery coffee up to his lips before taking a swig. The cold Belgian winter had already cooled the drink within a few minutes, but shit was better than nothing. Boredom amidst continuous tension had him ironically relaxing, so he took the bait with a nod of his head.
"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?"
Grinning, you readjusted yourself to lean more onto him, taking up Heffron's previous offer of letting you get more comfortable, any way you liked. "Think about it, Babe: All you need is a dry roof over your head, a place to sleep, honest work, and..." You cheekily laughed. "Simple food. Food that's...I'm sorry, but the way you described your meals, you'd be happy with dog food."
"That's pretty foul, and you know it, Sarge," he snorted with a shake of his head, a lazy smirk indicating that he had no problems going along with your little game. "Didn't think I'd ever be compared to a stray mutt, but here we are."
"Aw, c'mon. You'd be pretty cute as a little puppy." You nudged him when he rolled his eyes, and maybe it was the cold that had ruddiness staining his cheeks and the bridge of his nose at your claim. It had to be. Else...
"I'm thinking...I'm thinking...you'd be a...hm...a chihuahua!"
"...Sarge, are you serious?"
You wouldn't have that funny feeling in your gut when he returned a pointed look at you. You wouldn't be reading more into how you seemed to linger in his gaze; how antsy you felt when his focus seemed to sweep down and up towards your eyes before he pressed his back onto the hard earth.
The silence was slow. Comfortable after your exchange as grunts smoked and talked all around you both in their own respective foxholes. But still, a tad too pronounced in how the quiet came about.
Nervous. That's what you were. Nervous, all because of some spunky private from Philly that had grit that betrayed his stature. What was a sergeant like you feeling all tongue-tied for?
Get your head out of your fuckin' ass and act right.
You were supposed to be the more mature person here. A sergeant. You were supposed to be the one calling the shots, not bating your breath when Private Heffron gave you a single look. Sighing, you inwardly berated yourself before clearing your throat and tried to dispel the awkward quiet.
"So...uh...were you able to write back to your family—oh."
He was asleep. Five cups of joe and an infinite amount of cigarettes, but he was conked out within minutes. You were so nervous, so in your head, that you didn't even notice how his body had turned slack, his helmeted head resting against your shoulder. There was no awkward quiet; that shit was all on you.
Poor Babe. Exhaustion made itself known in tense lines around his mouth and dark circles under his eyes. God, he was another young man amongst the many who voluntarily signed up, who went above and beyond to be in the PIR, and his youth was obvious in his sleep. Something about Edward Heffron, in particular, when he was poised like this made a heavy feeling come over you.
You felt responsible. Sure, Guarnere was his sergeant, but you felt like you needed to be there for him. No, you had to be there for him; maybe you were reading too much into it, but there was something unsaid in the way he softened as you spoke to him. Something indescribable at how you had more chevrons, yet he'd automatically assist and ensure you had your footing without being prompted.
There was something in the way that you gave yourself too much grace, but you couldn't resist. Was it so wrong for you to be able to lean your head against his, to huddle together in the bite of winter? To let your own eyes drift close? To breathe when he did, together, in and out, in and out? To let yourself ease down into the dirt of the foxhole?
To accept how he silently took a hold of your body and put it on himself, leaning against the side of the dugout? And how you didn't say a peep? Didn't say a word when he took your hand in his, couldn't say a thing when he put his arm around you. And if you still could hear through the roar of an ocean in your ears...
Was it wrong to say that his heart beat a million miles per minute?
[EUGENE ROE x READER x RALPH SPINA]
Sighing, you snuggled further into Doc Roe, sipping on an ale as you watched Guarnere and Liebgott continue to rain punches on each other. Ralph had his arm on the armrest above where you were seated, and the three of you looked on at the fight that was also eagerly spectated by nearly every joe.
You could tell Eugene's exasperation was growing by every passing second. He didn't want to be here, yet he had to be here. Medic duties, and all, but it didn't mean he wanted to watch two idiots go at each other like dogs. Spina...Well, he was here for the ride. He seemed like he could care less, like it was normal for the grunts to fight all the time.
And he was right. They did fight all the time; sometimes, it was when offense was taken; sometimes, it was just unrestrained tension that had to snap; and sometimes, it was just numbskulls who wanted to get all primitive for fun, grinning like madmen even with blood staining the edges of their mouths. Ralphie actually looked like he was enjoying himself. You, however, really wanted to sleep, but you were here because Eugene was here.
"Damn couyons," Doc Roe muttered, gritting his cigarette when Liebgott tackled Guarnere to the ground and now had the upper hand. You could tell he was scanning for new injuries every second, eager to call the fray off when things got too out of control. "Das enough."
You sighed for the millionth time tonight. You waited for Sergeant Toye to meet your eyes from across the room, and you didn't need to ask for him to know what you wanted. He merely shrugged and tipped his head towards where Bill was rolling around on the floor, dragging Joe like a ragdoll.
Bummer. Looked like the fight wasn't over yet. Sergeant Toye was to step in to end it when he deemed like it was enough, but he still slacked against a barstool, drinking his beer, entertaining an irritated Malarkey.
"Eugey, I honestly think...this is gonna take a while."
Snorting, Spina sagged further into the couch, not giving a damn as he rested his head on your shoulder. He downed his entire drink before throwing his arms around you and squeezing you tightly. "Ah, well, then. Looks like I'm gonna have to do more babysitting."
"You? Not 'we'?"
He raised his brow at you, choosing to ruffle Roe's hair at the last second. Eugene scowled; you'd never tell him how cute he looked with his sodden reaction. "Nah, for my sake, I'mma need you guys to get some shut-eye. You and Eugene over here were on third watch, and those are some shit hours. I slept pretty well last night."
Concerned, you frowned, but it was cut short as Ralphie burrowed further into you and contentedly sighed. He popped a chocolate into your and Roe's mouths with expert stealth. When the hell he unwrapped those, you don't know, but there was a lot Doc Spina left as a mystery when it came to his antics. The only thing he allowed you to concentrate on was that shit-eating grin and his sure hold around your waist.
"I'll watch over these dumb jocks. You both get some rest back at your tents."
Eugene furrowed his brow. "I ain't leavin'. Who knows when dem oder imbéciles want to trow down aftuh." Your silence marked your agreement. "I'm stayin' put."
"Me, too."
Finishing your sweet treat, you set down your stale ale and mimicked Spina, albeit without the same intensity. Eugene didn't seem to mind; instead, he pat your hand around his midsection and let you lay against him. "How about...we nap here? Ralphie, you could wake us both up when things are done and Eugene needs to play mother hen."
"But that's not proper sleep."
"Proper sleep is so overrated, anyway. Luckily, no Germans popped off on us. Was pretty much nothing. Just wake us up when the cavemen get too beat up, okay?"
Ralph shook his head. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Boss."
Quickly, you turned your head and smiled as you used Eugene's hold as the most comfortable pillow. "Goodnight, Geney."
"...Bonne nuit, Sha."
And Eugene listened like you know he would. You knew he wanted to protest, to continue his surveillance, but when you called for lights out, he listened. Maybe it was wrong of you to take advantage of this strange power over him, but maybe he'd gone on for too long without someone to do that for him, to give him the permission to take reprieve. There wasn't a need to look hard to see fatigue lining the hard edges of his face. Eugene was like that: He'd save his voice unless necessary, and he unfortunately had a high tolerance for getting the shit end of the stick.
So you made him deem it was necessary, because it was. Raucous cheers and crude language, funny enough, were soothing as background noises, especially with Spina's arm around you and Roe's fixed heartbeat. You yawned and readjusted yourself, right as Guarnere rose to congratulate his supposed victory, but a sneak attack from Liebgott proved his success was called too early.
Whatever. Boys will be boys, as they say. You were soon on your own way to dreamland, especially after noticing how Eugene had already drifted off. He used the armrest as a pillow, the cadence of his breathing coming to a steady lull. You sleepily grinned when he instinctively cradled you further up on his form with a nonsensical murmur.
Most likely, Ralphie wasn't going to wake the both of you up, regardless. He'd handle it all, because that was how he rolled. You noted to yourself that you'd thank him later with that spare leave pass you'd been awarded by Lieutenant Welsh. You didn't really need it, anyway. Working with Geney in the clinic tomorrow wasn't too bad of a stint.
Nothing was ever terrible when you were with him. Spina, too. If that was the case, maybe you could ask Captain Nixon to spare you two more passes for this weekend...
[RON SPEIRS x READER x CARWOOD LIPTON]
"Sent it right on up to Battalion HQ, Sir," you surely replied. collecting the rest of notes on the makeshift table you made out of cargo boxes. "Captain Winters and Captain Nixon said Colonel Sink's scheduled visit should be on the twentieth..." You took a brief pause and lightly frowned. "Hm...I do think he will not be alone. There's a high probability that Major Strayer and other higher-ups will be joining him. A discussion on layout and how we want to present formation may be pertinent."
Nodding, Lieutenant Lipton leafed through the set of orders before taking time to slowly work out the crick in his neck. You also sighed in response; there was a dull thud pounding on the right side of your head, and the last few days of chaos since the failed Operation Market Garden was wearing on everyone's nerves. All the officers were working back-to-back, all throughout the night at times, scrambling to ensure that the next set of operational moves weren't going to be a catastrophe. Weariness ate into your bones as much as it did for the bars.
"Noted: We'll discuss that with Captain Winters at 0800 tomorro—well, today, I suppose." The lieutenant exhaled, giving an exhausted smile. "Thank you, Sergeant. I think we honestly need to get some much needed rest."
"I'd have to respectfully agree, Sir."
You packed up the rest of your paperwork and got set to leave the officer's tent after a quick salute. You'd be lucky if you even got three hours of sleep; your mind was running a thousand miles per second with all the things you needed to do, and you felt antsy. Exhausted, but still unable to get some shut-eye. The absolute irony.
Giving another sigh, you gasped as you a figure suddenly lifted the tent flap without a word. The imposing figure shook the mass of snow off of his overcoat before taking off his helmet, making your heart thud loudly. There was no one else who could do such a thing with this level of brevity.
"Both of you," the familiar voice quickly stated, "Sit back down and don't move."
The voice belonged to none other than Lieutenant Speirs, and no man could make the both of you heed his word without further thought. Pavlov's dogs, the both of you. Quite pitiful how you and Lieutenant Lipton fixed your eyes on him as he strode over and sat on the cargo box next to you.
Then, as if it was the most natural thing to do, he leaned against you. The movement made you unstable, forcing you to push your weight onto Lieutenant Lipton, who bemusedly took on the load. He softened and leaned back onto another crate of ammo after a while of steady breathing and confusing silence. But then again, was it truly confusing? It wasn't as if this was the first time...
It wasn't as if it was foreign for you to burrow into Lieutenant Speirs' body for warmth in cold foxholes. It wasn't foreign for Lieutenant Lipton to gingerly press his back to his superior's before the latter made him fully relax. It wasn't foreign for the three of you to fall asleep together on the job, and Captain Nixon and Captain Winters seemed to turn a blind eye when it happened. After all, morale was key, and duties were not shirked; if protocol was to continue, making a scene out of a key nicety silently demanded by the mad dog brought nothing but misfortune.
So they let him; if any brunt was to be felt, Lieutenant Speirs paid no mind in taking it. This was what he required, and God spare a man, even Colonel Sink, if he dared to ever brave a reprimand. There were no heroes to be spared in war, however, so he leaned into your shoulder. You swore you nearly launched into space when he lolled his head down towards your chest, his hair tickling your chin, as he situated himself into a more comfortable position. It only took one look for Lieutenant Lipton to utter a quiet "Sir" before leaning more into the ammo crate.
"Our sergeant has another shoulder, Lieutenant." Oh, you were sweating up a storm in your uniform, now. The cold didn't have any leverage at the gravel in his voice that had your cheeks aflame. "Let's not settle for pretenses, Lip. There are five more hours until formation."
Five more hours of heaven if things were going to be like this, but it wasn't as if you dared to say that out loud.
"Yes," Lieutenant Lipton whispered. "Yes, Sir."
Tentatively, he placed his head on your shoulder ever so lightly, as if he was afraid it was untoward of him to rest his full weight. You didn't want to press him for more. After all, Lieutenant Speirs' steady breathing was lulling you to sleep, and the arm he settled across your stomach...Well, there was no way you wanted to risk disrupting what you had, what this was. You didn't want to stop whatever this was, how the other man eventually succumbed to slumber, with his head craning up so that his lips ghosted the shell of your ear.
"Go to sleep, sergeant," Lieutenant Speirs groggily stated, his breath tickling your neck.
"I'll wake us both up. Don't worry about it."
So you murmured soft agreement before closing your eyes, your head gently resting on top of a head of blond, a head of brunet finding its final resting place on your inner shoulder. You were supposed to prepare for your meeting with Captain Nixon. You were to organize the notes and type up the report that was due at 1100. You were to...
You were to be here: between your two lieutenants. Yes. Here, in dreamland, where the sun shone down, and the skies were blue. The three of you in a car, lazily driving around in the countryside, without a care in the world.
And maybe, just maybe, that could soon be reality, if you all slept hard enough.
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I’m still try’na figure why they picked me for a medic. God knows... Snap of a finger, just like that, you’re a medic. I had enough playing doctor. How about you?
I think we need more Eugene Roe x Reader but you didn't hear it from me 🤫 nuh uh
👀 who out there whispering???? Because....
Falling asleep with Eugene Roe in a foxhole.
It's the norm. Shouldn't be, but it is. Three medics to a foxhole. Just you and Doc Roe...and Spina. Oh, don't mind the latter. Third wheel? What third wheel? Just pretend he's a natural part of your romance, just adding adlibs here and there, smoking a cig while reading the newspaper as you cuddle up to Eugene.
Should only be two medics at most. Strategically, only one, but Spina's more than happy to be the diversion as you hide and try to get away when the officers come around, back to your foxhole with some other grunt. So just relax and do your thing with Geney; you both aren't protesting the extra blanket and body warmth Ralph adds to the setup. Just make sure he doesn't sing. Ever.
It's another night. Cold. Snow everywhere. Liebgott's on fire watch with Malarkey, and you'd handed out the bribes like any other night. Spina, you, and Doc Roe, snug as a bug in a rug in your foxhole. You curl up on Eugene's body, your hand under his coat to lay your hand on his chest, listening to Ralph's soft snores. He horribly serenades the both of you tonight, as usual, before Heffron tells him to "shut his goddamned mouth"; after that, standup comedy, where he laughs at his own jokes to sleep, leaving you and Geney to count the stars.
"You gonna tell me if it ge' too chilly, you hear me?"
"I will," you say contentedly. "Don't worry."
Night after precious night, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Playing with his dog tags and feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours. In this time and space, you can ignore the bits of shrapnel and ammo shells scattered about, of blown earth and the continuous suspense of possible ambush. There's a forbidden luxury in hearing him cite his prayers, of tracing the lines of his palm and the beads of his rosary. Slumber settles over you to the sound of soft English and Cajun French, and you smile.
One last time, you trace over his stubble, smoothing the tension in his jaw, before brushing your fingers over his brow. He knows. The crickets chirp to snores and hushed conversations and the crackle of the fire. There's a lull in his eyes that reflect in yours. There's comfort in the steady weight of Spina's body at your back. There's the call for the change of firewatch, and you crane your head up at Eugene.
"Bonne nuit, Cher."
Slow and quiet is the kiss. His arms around you pull you in closer as your lips touch after the final amen, after your fingers gingerly guide his rosary back into his pocket for safekeeping. Every single time, the excitement never wanes, the happiness. Warmth blooms in the snow as he wishes you goodnight as he always does. Every night, you never want anything to change.
"Can I also get a goodnight kiss?" a familiar, sleepy voice asks.
