Summary: War doesn’t stop for anything — not even for these men and their wife.
Warnings: Soft! Reader, Interrupted sex, protective/possessive behavior, Married
William “Wild Bill” Guarnere
The old barn on the edge of the village had become your temporary refuge during a rare two-day lull. Bill had you pressed against the wall in the shadowed corner, your dress already pushed up around your hips, his mouth hot on your neck as his hands roamed. You were trembling already — always so sensitive, so quick to fall apart for him — soft little gasps escaping every time he touched you just right.
“Fuck, doll,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. “You’re already shakin’. My sweet girl… always so ready for me.”
You clung to his shoulders, face buried in his neck, completely lost in the feeling. “Bill… please…”
He was just starting to lift you higher against the wall when the barn door creaked open.
“Sergeant Guarnere? You in here? Lieutenant Welsh sent me to find you — said there’s a supply run and he needs—”
Bill’s head snapped toward the door so fast it was almost comical. The young replacement stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the scene.
“Jesus Christ!” Bill barked, immediately shifting to block you completely with his body. One hand stayed on your waist, the other pointing sharply at the kid. “Get the fuck out! Now!”
The replacement stumbled back a step. “S-Sorry, Sarge! I didn’t know—”
“Yeah, you didn’t know because you didn’t knock, you little shit! My wife is in here!” Bill’s voice was loud and furious, protective fury radiating off him. “Tell Welsh I’ll be there in ten minutes. And if you ever walk in on me and my wife again, I’ll break your goddamn legs!”
The kid fled.
The second the door slammed shut, Bill turned back to you. His expression softened instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled you into his arms.
“You okay, baby?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. His voice was still rough, but now it was all for you. “Little bastard ruined it. I’m sorry.”
You were flushed and still trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small, shy smile against his chest.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I was… really close already.”
Bill groaned and held you tighter, forehead dropping to yours.
“Goddamn it. Now I’m gonna be thinkin’ about that the whole supply run.” He kissed you hard, possessive. “When I get back, we’re finishin’ what we started. And I’m lockin’ every damn door this time.”
Denver “Bull” Randleman
The small room above the café had been quiet all afternoon — a rare pocket of peace. Bull had you in his lap on the narrow bed, your dress bunched up, his large hands steady and careful on your thighs as he kissed you slow and deep. You were already sensitive, already close, soft sounds escaping against his mouth every time he touched you.
“Easy, darlin’,” he rumbled quietly, voice low and warm. “I got you. Just let it happen.”
You were trembling in his arms, so responsive and innocent in the way only you could be, when a hesitant knock sounded at the door.
“Sergeant Randleman? It’s Private Miller. Captain Winters wanted me to find you — there’s a patrol briefing in twenty minutes and he said you should be there.”
Bull went very still.
His hands stayed on you, protective, but his entire body tensed. He turned his head slightly toward the door without moving you off his lap.
“Miller,” he called, voice deep and calm but carrying unmistakable weight, “I’m occupied. Tell the Captain I’ll be there shortly.”
There was a pause on the other side of the door.
“Uh… he said it was important, Sarge.”
Bull’s jaw tightened. He gently shifted you so you were more covered, then spoke again, quieter but firmer.
“Miller. I said I’ll be there shortly. My wife is with me. You understand what that means?”
Another pause. Then a hurried, “Yes, Sergeant. Sorry, Sergeant,” followed by retreating footsteps.
Bull exhaled slowly and turned his full attention back to you. His big hands were careful as he smoothed your dress back down and pulled you against his chest.
“You alright?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
You nodded against him, still a little flushed and breathless. “I was… really close.”
Bull let out a low, rumbling sound — half frustration, half affection — and held you tighter.
“I know, sweetheart. I could feel it.” He rested his chin on your head for a moment. “Damn replacements got no sense of timing.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle. “When I get back from this briefing, we’re pickin’ up right where we left off. And I’m puttin’ a chair under the doorknob this time.”
Eugene “Doc” Roe
The quiet corner of the aid station had been cleared out for a few hours — a rare moment of peace. Eugene had you pressed gently against the wall in the back room, his hands careful but urgent as he kissed you. You were already trembling, already sensitive in that way that always undid him, soft little sounds escaping every time he touched you.
“Mon cœur…” he murmured against your throat, voice low and rough. “You’re already fallin’ apart for me. So sweet. So innocent.”
You clung to him, overwhelmed in the best way, when the door to the aid station creaked.
“Doc? You in here? One of the replacements took a bad fall off a truck and we need—”
Eugene moved fast.
He immediately shifted, using his body to shield you completely while one hand reached out and yanked a blanket off a nearby cot, draping it over your shoulders in one smooth motion. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but carried an edge the other men rarely heard from him.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Now. My wife is in here.”
The young private froze in the doorway, eyes wide. “Oh— shit, sorry Doc, I didn’t—”
“Out,” Eugene repeated, colder this time. “And close the door behind you. Tell them I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
The private fled, the door slamming shut.
Eugene stayed still for a second, breathing hard, still shielding you with his body. Then he turned to you, expression softening instantly as he gently fixed your dress and pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
“You okay, cher?” he asked softly, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin with careful tenderness. “I’m sorry. Should’ve locked the damn door.”
You were still flushed and trembling slightly from how close you’d been, but you managed a small nod, leaning into his touch.
“I was… almost there,” you admitted shyly.
Eugene let out a quiet, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours.
“I know,” he murmured. “I could feel it. You’re always so sensitive for me.” He kissed you softly, then again, slower. “When I get back, we’re findin’ somewhere with a lock. And I’m not lettin’ anyone near you until I’ve taken care of my wife properly.”
Ronald Speirs
The small house on the outskirts of the village had been empty — a rare, perfect pocket of privacy during the lull. Speirs had you on the narrow bed, your dress pushed up, his hands firm but controlled as he kissed you with that intense, focused hunger he rarely showed anyone else. You were already sensitive, already close, trembling beneath him in that innocent, overwhelmed way that always made something dark and possessive flicker in his eyes.
“You’re shaking already,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and calm even as his hands moved with purpose. “So responsive. So sweet.”
You clung to him, soft sounds escaping, when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Lieutenant Speirs? It’s Private Harris. Captain Winters needs you for a briefing in fifteen minutes — said it’s urgent.”
Speirs went completely still.
For a long moment he didn’t move. Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes cold and sharp as he looked toward the door. When he spoke, his voice was quiet — dangerously quiet.
“Private Harris,” he said evenly, “I am occupied. Tell Captain Winters I will be there when I am finished here.”
There was a pause.
“Sir, he said it was important—”
Speirs’ voice dropped even lower, calm but laced with unmistakable threat.
“Private. If you knock on this door again, or if anyone else does, I will assume you are an enemy combatant and act accordingly. Do you understand me?”
Dead silence on the other side of the door. Then hurried footsteps retreating.
Speirs stayed still for another second, breathing controlled, before he turned his full attention back to you. His expression shifted — the cold edge melting into something intense and focused entirely on you.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, one hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
You nodded, still flushed and trembling from how close you’d been. “I was… really close.”
Speirs’ eyes darkened. He leaned down and kissed you slowly, deeply, possessive.
“I know,” he murmured against your lips. “I could feel every single time you almost fell apart.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your lower lip. “That private just cost me the rarest thing I have — time with my wife.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, but with clear intent.
“When I return from this briefing,” he said quietly, voice low and certain, “no one will interrupt us again. And I’m going to take my time with you. All of it.”
You're dating the most competent man alive, which is both comforting and exhausting.
Brings you flowers, but they're always seasonal, hand-picked, and arranged by color palette. Almost irritatingly perfect.
Says “I’ll pick you up at 6” and actually shows up at 6.
Has never texted “lol” in his life. Doesn’t know what it stands for. Probably assumes it’s code.
Keeps a running list of your favorite meals in a tiny notebook he won’t admit exists.
Will never post you on social media. But everyone knows he's taken.
Pros: Chivalry. Boundaries.
Cons: Has absolutely said “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed” and meant it.
🥃 Nixon
You thought you were just flirting with the guy at the bar who had sad eyes and good jokes. You were wrong. You’re in love.
Takes you on 2 a.m. walks and reads obscure history books in bed.
Sends texts like: “Thinking about you. Also the fall of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
Lets you wear his robe. You never give it back. He pretends to mind.
Pros: Thoughtful chaos. Witty with his wounds.
Cons: Has 8 types of whiskey and only one functional emotion.
😐 Speirs
You didn’t choose to date him. You made extended eye contact and now you're in a relationship.
You basically left the door open and he never left.
Sends exactly one text per day to check in on you: “?” Somehow it means “I love you.”
Buys you a knife “for protection.”
Also carries one for you.
"Isn't this illegal to carry?" "Not unless you show it to the police."
Overprotective, but lowkey about it, unless someone pushes it. Then he's across the room in two seconds.
Once picked you up from work and stared down your boss.
Doesn’t talk much, but will say follow you anywhere like he’s ordering a coffee.
Accidentally-on-purpose sends you a thirst trap photo then denies ever trying to send it.
Pros: Loyalty like gravity. Deadpan devotion. Surprisingly great cook.
Cons: Communicates in Morse code and murder energy.
🐶 Lipton
You mention a bad day once and he brings you snacks, your favourite blanket, and gently worded life advice.
Your parents adore him. Your friends think he’s made of sunlight.
Keeps a shared calendar and color-codes it on his tablet so your schedules are lined up.
Once bought you a plant and then felt guilty when it died.
Posts you constantly. “Look how beautiful my partner is" despite the boys teasing him about it and you begging him not to.
Pros: Stability. Affection. Emotional fluency.
Cons: Nothing. He is the benchmark. Marry him.
📱 Luz
Your relationship is 50% memes, 50% -"Are we being ironic or deeply in love?”
You start as friends; you accidentally hook up when you're laughing so hard you fall on top of each other.
Insists on “us” selfies where he makes faces and you try not to laugh.
The only one who knows how to use Snapchat.
Texts you at 2 a.m. with things like: “What if birds aren’t real but you are? 😳”
Actually deeply observant. Knows when you’re down and distracts you on purpose.
Took you on a date to IKEA and turned it into a fake domestic fantasy in one of the demonstration rooms and with a stuffed animal as a fake baby. You almost cried before he tossed the stuffed shark back into the bin and accidentally hit a child.
Led to a chase through the Ikea demonstration rooms and several "HAVE YOU SEEN THESE PEOPLE" posters up around Ikea.
You now have to go to the Ikea two towns over in order to get anything because an overreactive parents wants to press charges.
Calls you “babe” and “General.” Both feel right.
Always fills up the car with gas.
Pros: Chaos with a big heart. ADHD-coded love notes ("Officially diagnosed, bayyyybayyyyyy."), a rotating stock pile of increasingly more stupid and hilarious bumper stickers.
Cons: You have no idea if he paid the electricity bill or not and you force him into automatic billing so you don't have a heart attack every month.
🐍 Toye
You’re dating a grumpy old soul in a 30-year-old body.
Will fight for you, with you, or instead of you. Pick your poison.
Acts annoyed when you kiss his cheek. Secretly lives for it.
Owns two hoodies. You steal both. He complains, but lets you keep them.
“I’m not soft,” he says, while tucking a blanket around you and kissing your forehead.
Pros: Ride or die. Secret cuddler. Will deck someone in your name.
Cons: Pretends Taylor Swift is overrated but knows all the words and has a favourite era ("Reputation, obviously.").
🦿 Guarnere
Calls you “babe,” “honey,” “doll,” and “sergeant,” all in one sentence.
Flirts like he’s in a black-and-white movie.
Picks you up and spins you around if you so much as smile.
Surprisingly romantic. Candlelit dinner in the garage with pizza? He delivered.
Definitely got into a physical altercation with someone who insulted you on Twitter.
Unironically loves mafia films.
1000 percent supports Luigi Mangione ("HE WAS THE BEST GUY AROUNDDDDD" "What about the murder?" "WHAT MURDAAAAH").
Pros: Energy. Heart. Loyalty.
Cons: Will 100% bring a speaker to the park and blast Sinatra. Lives for shitty Italian-American representation like your local community theatre's production of "Jersey Boys" where the Frankie Valli actor is ten times too old and can hardly hit the high notes.
🎧 Malarkey
The actual definition of a "dog boyfriend," but less of a "golden retriever" boyfriend and more of a springer spaniel.
Texts you “u up?” at 10 p.m. but it’s just to show you a playlist he made called “Songs That Remind Me of Ur Face" with a stupid smiley face attached.
Always down for a drive to nowhere with the windows down and sad music playing. Unironically loves Lana Del Rey.
Brings you snacks, coffee, and a rock he found that “looks kind of like a heart.”
Makes a full Spotify playlist for your first kiss. Shares it. Title: “holy crap i like you.”
Watches rom-coms and pretends it’s “for the memes.” He cries every time.
Favourite is "You've Got Mail."
Pros: Soft hands. Big hugs. Bigger feelings.
Cons: Will make your entire relationship into a playlist and sob over it until you tell him to knock it off and force him to go on a "emotions walk."
💅 Perconte
You’ve never been exfoliated this emotionally in your life.
Shows his love by giving you a skincare routine and yelling if you don’t stick to it.
Buys matching water bottles. “Hydration is sexy, babe.”
Will literally throw down in Sephora if someone is rude to you.
Hates Sephora kids ("They always ruin the samples- no respect. Absolutely no respect.").
Ends up teaching the kids proper exfoliation after they mistake him for 28 and say "You look so good for your age."
Posts you on Instagram like: “Get yourself someone who makes your pores and heart glow.”
Surprises you with breakfast and a “face mask date.” He wears a stretchy headband. You fall harder.
Unironically loves Lululemon. Is more of a Lululemon Sephora girlie than any white girl you've ever met.
Pros: Skincare sugar daddy. Rides hard for you. Smells amazing.
Cons: Will judge your shampoo.
🥺 Babe Heffron
Human cinnamon roll. Cries if you look too pretty for too long.
Writes you little notes and leaves them in your bag like “You’re my favorite person.”
Nervous to hold your hand at first. Now does it constantly, like it’s oxygen. LOVES hand holding, even if it gets sweaty after a while and you have to shake your hand out.
Enjoys forehead kisses more than actual kisses.
Brings you flowers “just because.” Doesn’t realize you’re crying.
Asks if he can kiss you every single time. You say yes. Every single time.
Looks at you like you hung the moon. He means it.
Pros: Pure. Gentle. Hugs like home.
Cons: Cries during SPCA commercials.
🕯️ Doc Roe
Soft-spoken and emotionally confusing until one day he just… lays his soul at your feet. You die internally.
Carries your favourite snacks in his bag without telling you.
Touches your wrist to check your pulse like it’s a casual excuse to hold your hand. Your heart skips.
Won’t say “I love you” out loud for months, but he’ll pull you behind him when crossing the street.
ALWAYS walks on the outside near the cars.
One night he kisses you like he’s afraid the world might end. You realize he’s been in love with you since day one.
Pros: Quiet protector. Heals everything he touches.
Cons: Will not talk about his own feelings unless you really ask.
🗡️ Joe Liebgott
Says he doesn’t care about anything, but memorizes your coffee order by week two and brings it to your workplace.
Always swears when he compliments you — “Fuck- you look good."
Will snap at the world, but kiss you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear between blinks until you reassure him.
Calls you dumb affectionately. Tells you he’s the dumb one when your feelings get too quiet.
Acts like your hand in his is no big deal, but holds it like it’s keeping him here.
Gets loud with other people. Gets quiet with you.
You catch him staring at you during a dumb movie. He shrugs and says, “What? You’re the best part.”
One night, after a fight with another guy who was being rude to you, you hear him whisper, “I don’t know how to be good, but I do know how to love you.”
And he does.
Pros: Fierce loyalty. Cuts the world down to protect your peace. Would financially support you without even asking if you wanted to stay at home.
Cons: Will implode if you say the word “vulnerable” too directly.
can we get headcannons on what Ron would be like after the war with female reader? Such as his nightmares of the war and basically life in general with him? If you could add romance please :)
Thank you 🫶🏻
Combining these two prompts if anons don't mind. :)
tw// mdni, adult content, sexual content, Ron Speirs x female reader, talks of the Korean War and WWII, angst over marrying a career soldier, PTSD, PTSD-related physical outbursts, emotionally unavailable Ron, talks of divorce, breeding kink (oops but not), female reader has children, female reader feeling alone
Post-War Ron Speirs x female reader Headcanons
The war's over for everyone. But not for you. And not for Ron. What're you expecting, marrying a career soldier? Everyone's back home, and Ron's called to organize and clean up the remaining war effort.
Everyone's back home, and then Ron's called to some country named Korea; how funny that the few "blissful" years before his orders are given are spent preparing for them. So what's it like, marrying a career soldier? It's more than a career, you know; it's his lifeblood. He kisses you once at the pier and leaves, the scene of his retreating back one of many. One that you should be used to by now, but it doesn't get any easier. Never was.
What's it like to wake up to an empty bed? To be a wife to a man who you can't even see most of the time. Wife to Ronald Spiers, more a Major than a husband. More of Uncle Sam's property than your Ronnie.
Keep telling yourself that it is what it is. That this is the life you chose. That you shouldn't complain. This is your fate; this is your life. He comes and goes, war after another, and you think nothing changed about your Ron?
It was awkward before Korea. He had...these...strange dreams. They didn't happen all the time. But they were there. Simmering before the surface, in the form of bated breaths, of how you accidentally grabbed for his arm when he was in its thralls, and how he'd pinned you to the bed, wild eyes seeing but not seeing in the dark. Crushing your wrists, and you'd wailed his nickname, screaming out your desperation in mantras of itsmeitsmeRonniepleasewakeupwakeupronnieRONNIE until he finally snapped to; he finally snapped to to never sleeping in the same bed again, never sleeping in the same room again. He couldn't. He wouldn't; not after what he put you through, and the anguished reckoning in his eyes made it clear. He never was at the house long enough to see the questions, the broken state of your marriage. Cold dinners, cold coffee, cold seats, cold bed.
He slept in the cold barracks before he shipped off to Korea.
You slept in a cold bed alone before he shipped off to war. Again.
And then he's back. Back from a forgotten war, you quickly learn. Korea? What the hell's that? The world had moved on since World War II. The world had moved on while millions of men had shipped off to some place in the east, returning with no victory, no parade. Nothing.
They come back with something, however. Ron comes back to you. Back with these papers, and every single feeling of wretchedness surfaces when he comes back with the nightmares and his gift to you of divorce.
"The house. The cars. You can keep them all. You can have everything."
You tear up every single page. You cry. You weep. You wail. You hit at his chest. That what the hell is this, after everything the both of you went through. That didn't he make you his wife? That you wear your wedding ring every single day, laying every single night in your cold bed, refusing to give up on a man who's married to the army more than the flesh and blood of his woman. And you were okay with that; you are okay with that. So why can't he be?
He tells you to go free. You'd been a prisoner long enough. How long are you going to stay chained to him as a Speirs, as a literal widow? You want him to come back to your bed; you want him to lay with you, but you clearly don't remember that he'd nearly done something inexplicable. That if he hadn't come to that night, he could've...he would've...
You kiss him. You kiss him because he doesn't kiss back. It hurts, but you kiss him again and again. You kiss him, because you trample the torn divorce papers under your heel. You kiss him, because you reach for his calloused hand and still feel his wedding ring, and you touch your wedding ring to his through the salt of your tears. You touch at his cheek, his chest, the heat of his trembling skin hidden underneath his uniform.
You bring him to your cold bed. You don't want it to be cold, any longer. You kiss him, and you pull him down on top of you. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him to find your Ronnie, the man who made your whole world come to color, the man who had the power to take it all away.
The man who finally kisses you back, who gives you room to run to call it quits, because through hoarse whispers, he warns you that once you're fully his, not just through a flimsy marriage license, that you'd never get rid of him. Through his eyes, he tells you it's a trap. That if he sinks low, he'll drag you to hell with the burdens of a man made alive by war.
Yes, yes, yes, everything yes. You'd choose him each and every single time. You kiss him because he should've known by now. You kiss him because you want him to make love to you. You kiss him because he kisses you back, and you realize how ravenous a starving hound can get.
The bed, he takes upon as his duty to keep it stoked each and every night. What was ice was now a bubble you never want to leave. Not that he'll let you.
Clawing at his back while he fucks you with your legs pressed up near your head. On your side. From behind. With your hips canted up, attempting to meet him thrust for thrust while he drives into you relentlessly. Begging. Sobbing. Orgasm after orgasm. Wailing to the high heavens while he groans that you'd make a good mother, and that from now on, his sole mission is to pump one into you. Every. Single. Day. That you'd like that too, wouldn't you? One, two, three kids, maybe more? It's filthy. It makes your womb clench. But for him, it's nothing but the truth, because he tells nothing but the truth.
It's not a fairytale resolution to all of the cobwebs, the problems. But it's the start to the healing of your marriage. All through a kiss, just like the first time you knew you loved him when he held you.
He's an old dog. The army knows that and posts him as appropriate. Promoted him to lieutenant colonel. And by you, he'd been promoted to father, the man who loves and provides for both of your beautiful children.
The man who sleeps in the same bed you sleep in. The man you know inside and out, that you may not know what he'd been through in the forests of Europe and the mountains of Asia, but you knew when the darkness made its appearance. You knew the signs of when the alternate world will come to him late at night. You knew. And you accept that it's not just a part of Ronald Speirs, but that it is him, that gentleness had its twin of vicious survival.
Ronnie, it's me. You're safe. You're in Washington, Honey. Ronnie. Ronnie, wake up, Dear. You're back at home. You're back at home.
2 A.M. 4 A.M. In the middle of a nap. It doesn't matter. When it happens, it happens. You know the drill. You don't touch him, you don't go close within arm's reach. Nearby, you repeat the mantra, your soothing words. Whether it takes a few seconds to hours, you standby ever so patiently, praying for him to safely exit the dreamscape. And it's only when he does, when he whispers your name, the inquiry ever so present in the exhale of his breath, that you bring his head to your bosom. That you touch him, smooth your fingers over his eyes, lips, the bridge of his nose, telling him that it's all right, that he's safe at home here in America. That you're still his wife, that his lovely children are sleeping soundly in their rooms, and you love him and you love him and you love him so much, your sweet Ronnie.
You love your husband, Ronald Speirs, so very much. And at cruel nights such as these, you kiss him because he needs to know that he belongs in the warmth of your bed, that he belongs with your body opening up to let him in. He belongs in your arms, here where he's safe with you; far, far away from the likes of war.
@iceman-kazansky i was your secret santa!!! i hope you enjoy this speirs x reader fic that ended up being a bit longer than i originally planned lol (3.8k words). merry christmas!
this is also cross-posted on ao3 here
Usually you can tell when you’re getting sick. Not this time. It seems to come out of nowhere, maybe because you’ve had chills and a runny nose since you moved in to Bastogne on the 19th. After the eleventh uncontrollable coughing fit that day, you decide to quit sucking it up and go see a medic around sunset.
“Jesus, you’re burning up,” Spina says as soon as his hand touches your forehead. “How long has this been going on?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. Has anybody been feeling well the past five days?”
“Fair point. Open your mouth.”
“At least ask me out to dinner first.” But you comply, of course, despite the fact that the cold air makes your throat feel even worse than it already does.
It doesn’t take long for Spina to pronounce that you’ll be fine in time. “But I can’t waste any medicine on you—sorry. You’ll have to ride it out.”
The fact that you’re not dying is welcome, but you still frown. “Well, that’s what I would’ve done anyway. But thanks, doc.”
You don’t make it even halfway back to your foxhole before another coughing fit hits, which is fantastic. There’s an ache in your chest that the cough only aggravates, and soon you’re doubled over in pain against a frozen tree, hacking up a lung.
“You wounded—?”
You rudely cut off whoever is trying to help you with a fresh bout of coughing, barely managing a thumbs up. “Just—uh—” Your throat is dry enough to keep the words from coming out.
“Here.”
The face you look into is Lieutenat Speirs’, and it’s almost enough to make you hesitate to take his canteen. “Th—Thanks.” You do you best not to let your mouth touch the cold metal. “Just sick. Doc Spina said there’s nothing he can do about it.”
“That’s too bad.” He doesn’t reach for his canteen back, and you feel rushed as you screw the cap back on and hand it to him. “Right before Christmas.”
“As if being stuck in Bastogne wasn’t bad enough.” You narrowly stop another coughing fit, grimace, and say the next part in a lower voice. “I should probably get back to the line.”
“Right.” His face is set in what you’ve found by now is its usual grimness.
As you turn to head back to your foxhole, you could almost swear you hear Speirs say Merry Christmas.
—
You hadn’t gotten much sleep that past night, what with all the shells flying over head. No Christmas Truce in Bastogne, despite the faint attempts at “Silent Night” in German that had emanated from the other side for a few minutes after the moon had risen.
Not that being sick had helped anything. Now that you were conscious of having a fever, you were also conscious of the frequent and uncontrollable transitions your body made from blazing hot to freezing cold. You’d been planning to drag yourself out to get some breakfast, such as it was, but Doc Roe had come by around sunrise with half a cup of rancid beans and echoed Spina’s unfortunate diagnosis.
You’re doing your best to watch the line, which isn’t much since you keep coughing, sneezing, or shaking every thirty seconds. At least the coughing fits keep you from falling asleep on the job.
When you have to leave your foxhole to use the bathroom, you’re shaking so badly it’s almost impossible. But then again, that isn’t really a change from what everyone’s been going through this whole time.
There’s something on the ground when you finally make your way back, doublewrapped in shiny cellophane like K rations, but the wrong shape.
You get resettled in your foxhole before gingerly pulling the item closer across the snow. The cellophane crinkles in your sock-covered hands. You turn it over, looking for the printed UNITED STATES ARMY or DROMEDARY FRUIT BAR or whatever it may be, but when you see what the label actually is, you almost drop it in shock.
How did rations labeled with the SS insignia show up right by your foxhole?
There’s no way the SS themselves actually walked up to your foxhole, left food, and walked away. That’s ridiculous. So who put it there?
You open the wrapping awkwardly, slipping the sock off your right hand for as short a time as possible, to see two slices of stale bread and a small round metal container. Looking over your shoulders—for some reason, this feels almost forbidden—you pry open the container to see—
“Holy shit.” Is that jam?
It’s barely a tablespoon, but you lean in as close as physically possible and take a hefty sniff through your stopped-up nose.
“There’s no way,” you whisper, because there really is no way that someone has just left two slices of SS bread and one tin of real SS jam—made, probably, from real fruit—by your foxhole.
You know you shouldn’t eat this, should check with someone or make sure it’s safe, but it’s Christmas, dammit, and you’re sick, and this is jam. And when was the last time you had jam?
The fruit it’s made from is unidentifiable, but right then, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. If it’s poisoned or spoiled, at least you’ll die happy. Sick and freezing, but happy.
—
The next morning dawns with Doc Roe shaking you awake, which, despite being irritating, is a welcome sensation because it means that you actually slept for once. “You doing alright out here?”
“You—” It takes two heavy coughs to clear your throat enough to speak, and it hurts to swallow again. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” There’s a couple explosions in the distance, and somebody calls for a medic, and he’s gone.
You drift in and out of awareness the next few hours, which is not very responsible, but you’re pretty sure it’s because the fever has gotten worse.
You don’t know what time it is—too much work to check your watch—when you hear footsteps in the snow and crane your neck to see.
“Third Army’s getting closer,” Speirs announces without so much as a hello.
You blink, barely able to concentrate on his words. “Third what?”
“Patton and the Third Army. We’re not surrendering.”
“Oh, we’re not? I couldn’t tell.” It’s a wonder you’re able to string two thoughts together, let alone your words.
Speirs’ boots crunch the snow as he squats down just in your line of sight. “You have a good Christmas?”
A good Christmas? Is he serious? You don’t answer, partially because it would take too much effort.
His hand hits your shoulder and sends a wave of dizziness through your head. “Hang in there, soldier.”
You mumble something even you don’t understand as his footsteps fade away, but something catches your eye against the white snow.
There, in Speirs’ quickly refreezing bootprint, are two hair combs the length of your thumb, mottled dark brown and amber. Your dazed brain can’t recall what the material’s called.
You don’t want to move a hand, but the falling snow will cover them up if you don’t grab them now.
As you hold them close to your chest—it’s not as though you’ll be able to use them until the war is over—you can’t help but wonder, where on earth did Speirs get them? And why did he give them to you?
—
December 27 brings a higher fever in the morning—you think; you don’t actually have a thermometer—making it nearly impossible to move a muscle when you wake up, far too early. Even trying to shift to a more comfortable position sends pain shooting up and down your back, which is only compounded when the chills start again an hour after sunrise.
The only thing making any of this bearable is the sight of familiar C-47s flying overhead, actually dropping supplies for the first time since you moved in. No, you didn’t need to be rescued by Patton. But fresh supplies are better than whatever you’d been having. Except you’re not sure anything could beat that jam from Christmas, not for the rest of your life.
It’s probably around noon when you start seeing things that aren’t there. You have to be seeing things that aren’t there—or else why would you see Lieutenant Speirs walk up to your foxhole, place down a full carton of eggs that could’ve come straight from the A&P two blocks south of your house in the States, carefully take out two white eggs from one end of the carton, and throw them at your head?
The eggs are flying at your head for about forty-five seconds, despite the fact that the carton is literally in the foxhole with you, and Speirs has simply vanished by the time they actually hit.
You jerk back into reality—more or less—as there’s a distinct sensation of something cold and slimy running down your chin, and you realize you’ve just let out a sneeze that can probably be heard from the German line. Added to that, you have a massive headache again, probably from being sick and not from any eggs being thrown at you.
The eggs—they aren’t there, of course, when you do your best to crane your neck without inducing agony (it doesn’t work). Or, actually, there is something there, because you can feel warmth reaching your near-frozen toes. But whatever it is, you can’t see it, and by the time you can reach it without convulsing in tears, it won’t be warm anymore.
“Well, fuck,” you announce to no one in particular. Thank you, Speirs, for the new footwarmer.
—
That day seems to have been the dark before the dawn, because that Thursday, you can bring yourself to get out of the foxhole and walk around. Miracle of miracles, you’re able to get breakfast yourself without a medic bringing it to you.
Or you would’ve been, if you hadn’t had to. Because lying in your foxhole is a glinting can of chopped ham and egg, halfway open.
Chopped ham and egg was the first to go when you started running low on K Rations. No one’s seen a full breakfast since you moved in at Bastogne. But with the supply drops yesterday, they must be available again.
You’re sitting in your foxhole, huddled under blankets, eating your cold ham and eggs, when you hear footsteps. It had better not be Speirs. Why won’t the man leave you alone?
It is Speirs. Of course.
“You saved it for this morning?” He squats by your foxhole and gestured to the can, no “hello” or anything.
“Well, seeing as how I couldn’t move yesterday without being in unbearable pain, not really, but sure.” You scrape the can out. “Kept my toes nice and warm, though. Thought it was a hot rock at first. Thanks.”
Your sarcasm seems to be lost on Speirs, who only nods briefly in response. “Cigarette?”
You look in disbelief at the open pack of cigarettes in his hand. “No, thanks.”
“Keep you warm.”
“I’m fine.” You are not fine, but you know better than to accept a cigarette from Speirs, even if you aren’t a German POW.
Speirs shrugs and puts the pack back into his pocket. “Alright.”
He leaves as abruptly as he showed up, which doesn’t bother you much. Better for him to actually do his job than check in on you every day.
But it’s less than an hour before he’s back again, the bastard, carrying an unnaturally heavy sock in each hand. There’s steam coming off them.
You find the strength to stand up and face him. “Please, don’t—”
“Hot rocks.” He tosses the socks at you unexpectedly, and you only catch them at the last second. “Gotta stay warm out here.”
You’re looking down at the warm socks, two hot rocks visible in each of them, in slightly irritated surprise for a while before you realize Speirs is gone again.
—
Maybe it’s good that you haven’t left your foxhole very much, and maybe it’s good that Speirs was able to keep your feet warm, because when you wake up the next day with only a slightly stuffy nose and a tickle in your throat you discover that the leather of your boots has frozen, cracked, warmed up, frozen again, and cracked again in entirely different places.
At least now that Patton’s broken through, you have a chance of getting new boots—but then again, people were finding ways before Patton broke through. Taking boots from dead bodies, mostly.
You’re sitting on the edge of your foxhole around sunset on the 29th, boots untied, trying to rub some feeling back into your feet again, when he appears.
Speirs.
You’re determined not to let him act like a gift-giving ghost this time. “Don’t you have better things to do—?”
“Evening,” he says for once, and your mouth drops open a little in shock. “You alright here?”
You clench your jaw and look down at your sock, visible through the tips of your boots. “I’ve been worse.”
He follows your gaze. “And better, too.”
“Sure.”
After an awkward pause, Speirs says, “Well, you probably won’t care about this now, but I found this, and I can’t use it.” He sets something down next to you, which you’re not looking at due to focusing on your feet, and walks off.
Too late, you see him walking away. “Wait—”
And he’s vanished again.
In his place by your side is what appears to be a brooch decorated with five blue flowers. But that wouldn’t make sense at all, because up until now, he’s been leaving you useful things, like a cat bringing you mice, if you were also a cat.
The brooch—after lacing up your boots and examining the item, you’ve determined that’s what it is—is something completely different. It almost makes you wonder if Speirs wants something from you.
There’s not much (if any) use for a brooch in wartime, but the way it glitters is comforting. It reminds you of a party back home.
That, if nothing else, you can thank Lieutenant Speirs for.
—
“You know, I was starting to think this might be a wild goose chase.”
You jolt awake, senses instantly on high alert, left hand stiff for some unknown reason, momentarily terrified before realizing it’s Speirs again. Of course.
“Wild goose chase?” you repeat sleepily. The stiffness in your hand was caused, it seems, by the fact that you were holding the brooch tightly all night.
A pair of brown boots thumps down in the foxhole beside you. “Is this the right size?”
Now your jaw really does drop all the way open. You take a quick look at the boots. “Yes, but—”
“Well, I can’t have anyone freezing their feet off, can I?” Speirs seems to find this immensely funny. “Merry Christmas.”
“Christmas was five days ago.” But you start taking off your ruined boots anyway, flexing your toes to make sure they’re still there.
“Merry sixth day of Christmas, then.”
You lace up the new boots slowly. It won’t do to wonder where he got them. “I thought that was a Catholic thing. Aren’t you—?”
But, once again, he’s already gone.
“Thanks,” you mutter, only a little reluctantly.
—
It’s good that you have wearable boots again, because on New Year’s Eve, the 101st gets the command to move out. They’re moving you off the line, thank goodness—and thank goodness you’re well enough again to march.
Speirs doesn’t make an appearance at your foxhole while you’re getting ready to move out. It’s fine, as he doesn’t have a reason to. But for some strange reason, his absence irks you almost as much as his presence did.
Now that I’m not sick, you can’t be bothered anymore? Is that it, Speirs?
You see him in passing, of course, when everyone is filing out of Bastogne, looks of relief on all faces, but he barely even gives you a first glance, let alone a second glance. Now that does make you mad. He stops you out of nowhere to give you a drink from his canteen on Christmas Eve, and now radio silence? So much for the festive spirit.
You don’t have to march long to get off the line, which is nice. But when you’re digging your foxhole, there’s no Doing alright here? or You dug in? from an unexpected presence at your elbow, no inscrutable hazel eyes and unasked-for help.
Bastard.
Dinner almost feels normal, eating all together and everything. With no line to constantly watch anymore, the mood is a lot lighter.
Someone jokes about “Berlin by Christmas” for what is probably the millionth time since Christmas, and then they decide to ring in the new year as one, which is probably a terrible idea, but there isn’t a soldier there who hasn’t operated on less sleep. You’ve been dying to get some real sleep for the past week, but then you see that Speirs has decided to hang around.
It might be a terrible idea to talk to him, but you were nothing if not restrained the entire time that he was harassing you. Surely you can continue to be.
He’s the one who finds his way to you, five or ten minutes before midnight. The metal coffee mug in his hand is almost empty, but you can smell the alcohol on his breath. He’s actually holding two mugs, one fuller of liquor than it has any right to be, and he hands it to you. “Happy almost–New Year.”
“That’s the seventh day of Christmas to you.” It’s intended as a light joke, but the “to you” comes out harsher than you’d intended. You take the mug anyway.
He doesn’t say anything as you take a too-large swig of unknown liquor from the mug, just starts walking off. After half a second, he glances back at you, and you have no choice but to follow him.
“Christ, what did you do, dilute Nixon’s Vat 69 with piss?” The liquor tastes terrible, but you keep drinking it anyway. It gives you a little more confidence, which is maybe a bad thing.
Silence from Speirs again.
Walking around doing his job all day is understandable, but standing right here ignoring you is nigh intolerable. “Are you going to say something, Speirs, or just stare at me drinking?”
“Happy almost–New Year,” he says again, and you could swear there’s more of a glint in his eye than usual.
“Is this some kind of a joke to you?” This time, the frustration in your words is there on purpose.
He’s still walking.
You down the last of the mug’s contents with a grimace and plant your feet. “What the hell is going on here? Where do you get off?”
For the first time, he responds. “Where do I get off?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not sure I did, since you’re the one who’s been treating me like shit this whole time.” His voice remains infuriatingly level, if cold, and it only makes you more determined to get a rise out of him.
“I was sick! I was sick, and you started giving me—giving me random shit for no discernible reason, so forgive me if I didn’t know what to do!” You’re doing your best not to yell, to remind yourself that your voice isn’t back at full strength yet. It’s not working. “You could at least have the guts to say something instead of brushing me off all day!”
“No, forgive me for having a job to do. I’m sorry I had things to do instead of hanging on your every word.” There’s color rising in his cheeks now, and it gives you a sick sort of satisfaction.
“Hanging on my—Christ! Did you ever think there might be something between the cold shoulder and—and whatever the hell you call the last week?”
“What I thought was that you were cold and sick, and you might not like to be!”
Some part of you knows what you’re about to say is ridiculous, goading, but you say it anyway. “Oh, and what gave you the right to decide what’s good for me?”
“It’s because I like you, alright? And you—Well, you never seemed to give me the time of day! So I take what I can get!”
“You like me? What are you, twelve?” But then what he’s just said actually sinks in. “You—Oh. Oh, shit. Well, fuck me,” you can’t help but add.
“Maybe later,” Speirs says, and then his eyes widen in possibly the most emotion he’s displayed yet. “I’ve had too much to drink—”
“Yeah, so have I. And I’m the one who should be worried.” You cover your face with your hands. “How could I be so stupid?”
“I’ve heard that fever dulls your brain.” He’s laughing at you now, no mistake, but you feel too ashamed to be mad at him.
“That’s true. I hallucinated you throwing eggs at me, you know that?”
He smirks. “And why would I know that?”
It’s your turn to ignore his comment now. “Did I really treat you like shit?”
“Not the whole time.”
You sigh. “And you kept doing things for me? What—Why?”
“I think we’ve already covered that one. Don’t worry, you can make it up to me.”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t expect me to play nurse, or anything—”
“Is that mistletoe?”
You look up (it isn’t), and his hand catches your face on the way down, which you have to admit is very smooth. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Wouldn’t want anyone knowing you say my name in your sleep, would you?”
Your cheeks get hot. “I do not. You have absolutely no proof of that, anyway.” But it could be true. Part of you wouldn’t mind if it was.
Speirs’ hand is still on your cheek, an almost comforting warmth. “I think it is mistletoe, actually,” he says, and then looks at his watch. “Besides, it’ll be midnight in a few seconds.”
“You’ll have to find someone else to kiss for good luck fast, then,” you respond, but you don’t move away.
“Do you see anyone else standing this close to me?”
“Oh, very funny.” Your heart is racing, and you’re almost mad at yourself that it’s not because you don’t want him to kiss you.
“Ten seconds,” he goes on. “Do you want to start 1945 off right or not? Six, five—”
You barely hold back a smile. “Ron Speirs, I swear to—”
“—One,” Speirs pronounces, and when you still don’t move after another half second, he leans in and kisses you, far too briefly. “You’re not still contagious, are you?”
“You better hope not.” You smirk. “Because damned if I’m about to let you half-ass my New Year’s kiss.”
Margaret ‘Maggie’ Emerson, an army nurse attached to the 506th parachute infantry regiment, finds herself growing closer to her company’s captain, Ronald Speirs. With war drawing to an end, a side to the mystery that is Captain Speirs is revealed. Both Maggie and Ron have a difficult time resisting their attraction to one another.
This is my new slow burn mini-series. I’m not sure how many parts this will include but I’m excited to write, hope you enjoy!
Maggie tugged off her headscarf, hands trembling, scrubbed raw as she sat herself outside the make-do field hospital. The casualties in Austria weren’t half as bad as she’d witnessed in places like Normandy or Bastogne. But every now and then somebody would slip through the cracks, and she’d loose track of time caring for them. In this circumstance an older German officer, no SS uniform, an emotional man. When she offered him powdered milk he cried.
The older man didn’t survive the surgery she assisted in. Her promotion to a surgical nurse had come with its downfalls. He’d bled out internally, right in front of her, she felt so out of her depth watching the surgeons practically give up. Maggie felt guilty for becoming all bleary eyed. It was understandable when they were knee deep in war and casualties, but right now it was a breeze compared to that.
“Nurse?” A gentle voice rung out just as her head dropped. Maggie straightened her back, swallowing harshly. “Captain Speirs.” She offered him a polite nod.
“Are you ok?” He blinked back to her, overtly aware of how her bottom lip quivered when she looked back to him. Truthfully, Ron didn’t like seeing any woman cry. At least not her. His professionalism remained in tack throughout the war, and it would continue to do so- but there was something about the nurse who sat before him that made him want to… soften.
“I’m- I’m good, sir.” She searched for the words, forcing a weak smile that Ron could read anywhere. He rummaged in his pocket, pulling the pack of Camel’s out and offering her a cigarette.
“Thank you, sir.” She weakly muttered as he sat down besides her with a breathy groan, pulling out the lighter. Her hands lifted, shielding the wind not-so-well. Ron muttered to himself, raising his other hand to cover hers. When he lit the end, he accidentally allowed his gaze to run over her downcast gaze. “It’s the end of the war.” He commented, blunter than it intended to. Surely everything should be improving?
She let out a soft laugh, inhaling on the cigarette. “For now.” Deployment to Pacific somehow seemed even more terrifying knowing what was coming. When she entered Normandy she was somewhat clueless to everything she’d see- that was somewhat grateful for that or she would’ve never jumped off that boat onto the sandy beaches.
Ron turned, jaw clenched as he sat beside her quietly. Obviously in a need of comfort he didn’t know what else to provide, he somewhat panicked she wouldn’t like her Captain being there, that he made her uneasy or intimidated. Maggie didn’t mind. She turned her head, looking over his dark features. He was well groomed, he even smelt good, a handsome man- painstakingly handsome. For her own good, she turned away.
“In off duty now- I’m not just… taking a break.” Becoming acutely aware that it actually was Captain Speirs, she informed him rather quickly.
“Even if you were, there’s nothing wrong with that.” He made sure to assure, knowing how tirelessly the nurses worked.
“What time did you start?”
“4.”
“This afternoon?”
“No.”
Ron glanced at her, mouth slightly agape. He was ready to protest her hard working before realising it wouldn’t be the smartest idea.
“I’ll walk you back.” She was a little surprised at his words. She knew he was only offering to be polite, but it was his way of effectively saying ‘home time’.
“Sir, you don’t have to.”
“I want to.” Ron spoke without thinking first, their eyes meeting. When they did, she instinctively followed him, legs feeling like jelly from the long day she’d been on them. Was it that or the fact Captain Ronald Speirs was walking her back?
After a brief moment of comfortable silence, Ron spoke again. “S’ a long day for you… how’d ya lose track of time, exactly?” He muttered, cigarette between his lips as he lit it effortlessly.
“Surgery. We were operating on a German officer.” Ron glimpsed at her again, wondering if she thought it was a good or bad thing. “Yeah, he died, so…” her shoe kicked against a slightly bigger rock below, used to her combat boots, she didn’t expect to stub her toe, wincing silently at her clumsy move.
“I’m sorry.” Ron muttered, an odd sense of relief running through her. Nobody else had been so bothered that this man lost his life, purely because he was German. It didn’t mean he wasn’t still a human.
“Why?” She asked, instinctively wanting to know why he, an American officer cared. “Well I don’t think anyone wants to see anybody dying anymore.”
“The surgeons didn’t seem so bothered.”
“What?”
“The surgeons.” She paused, looking up to the man before her. “They don’t care what a nurse has to say, not when it comes to a German.” Ron paused, watching her beginning to walk again. His brows winced together slightly and he slowly followed her, inhaling on his cigarette.
“Want me to speak to them?” He offered. “No, thank you. You shouldn’t have to ask for humanity in a surgeon of all people. I mean he even cried over powdered milk for Christ sake.”
“Who?”
“The German officer, he cried over powdered milk that I gave him.” Maggie spoke on a sigh before continuing. “You know the-the young ones don’t even crack a wince in pain, they refuse morphine, but the older ones they’re softer, they cry easier. I don’t understand it, sir.” She broke off in a slight tangent.
“Hitlers Youth.” Ron rasped in response to her words. He’d seen it, the ruthlessness of the young men he came so close to. On the lines they were fearless, tough, almost untouchable- “Brainwashed.” Maggie sighed, staring up to the night sky above. She’d finished his train of thought.
“Uh huh.” Ron agreed and she turned to him again, realising who she was with, telling her story to. That’s your Captain. Maggie stood up straighter again, averting her gaze. “Sorry sir, I shouldn’t be rambling to you.”
“It’s Margaret right?” He avoided her nonsense apology and spoke up, almost feeling a little nervous. A genuine smile finally cracked on her face, Ron was confused to hear her laugh. “Maggie. I forget Margaret’s even my name.” She mocked herself.
“Maggie.” Ron corrected, feeling his eyes scan over her shorter frame. Truthfully he’d seen her around, she was beautiful, there was no denying, caring, loyal, courageous- Ron knew all this but he’d never been close to the nurses, often working elsewhere towards the front of the lines. It wasn’t until he was promoted to Easy Company and they entered Germany and Austria did he begin working closer with them.
Maggie smiled again, looking back to the area ahead as they drew closer to where she was staying. Stealing another glance, she felt her heart jump from nerves seeing he was doing the same thing. “I’m just staying over there, that building on the right.” She babbled what felt like nonsense.
Ron nodded, scoping out the quiet area. “Probably not as nice as where you are.” Maggie added, wringing her headscarf between her hands. “Looks nice to me.” Speirs commented as they grew closer to where she was bunked.
“Thank you for walking me back, sir, I appreciate it.” She nodded, feet hitting the concrete below. Maggie felt her cheeks warm as they slowed to a full stop, she inhaled another puff of her cigarette, seeing him watch the faint smoke cloud swirl into the air above her.
Ron opened his mouth, eyes landed back on hers. She was stood so politely, a little shyly, he watched as she toyed her hands around the blue fabric in her hands. For the second time, he worried he made her nervous, scared as they walked back together in the night. That was the last thing he wanted, especially with her.
“If the surgeons give you anymore trouble, let me know.” He watched the corners of her lips pick up further.
“Thank you sir.” He offered her a smile as she turned back to where she was staying. “Ron…” he muttered, voice barely audible.
“Sorry, sir?” She spun back around. Ron felt his chest tighten and he swallowed thickly. “Just call me Ron.”
Nodding, she offered him a gentle grin, “okay. G’night, Ron.” Hearing the name fall from her lips had him smiling. Maggie wasn’t sure if she’d even heard of Captain Speirs smile before, never mind seen it. He nodded and she hesitantly headed back inside, putting out the cigarette before she closed the door behind her.
“Evening.” She nodded to the men guarding the house, they both appeared young, just replacements. “Evening, ma’m.” When she arrived to the apartment she shared with two other nurses they both jumped from the window giddily.
“Captain Speirs is outside.” Nora turned around in surprise as Maggie’s head lifted, placing her bag to one side on the kitchen tabletop.
“Yeah?” She gently responded. “Uh huh, we saw you talking to him. What were you getting, a lecture about entering the Eagles nest?”
“Or was it that you got completely fried when we were up there.” The second girl, Janet snickered deviously.
“No! And no! Everybody else was just as sauced- thank you very much, Janet!” Maggie sassed, taking her cardigan off and placing it into the laundry basket. “He walked me back. He’s actually really nice.” Maggie defended.
“Don’t tell me you’re doing the dirty with Captain Speirs out of everybody?” Nora’s brows raised. “Oh my god, Maggie!” Janet bounced.
“No! I’ve barely spoke to him apart from tonight!” She glanced back out of the window, watching Captain Speirs slip back inside his own billeted house across the square. She pursed her lips, smiling a little before looking back up to the girls.
“Well he is a total dreamboat, a little scary, Mag’s, but whatever floats your boat.” Nora shrugged. “It’s scary how nice he is.” Maggie muttered, captivated by the interaction she had. He almost made her forget about the terrible day she’d just had.
Maggie had always lived in fantasy land, before the war that was. She found herself daydreaming often, thinking about boys. She was used to the attention of lots of boys, both back home and throughout the war- but Captain Speirs was different. He was a man, she hadn’t felt so… gooey inside since she was a teenager, pre-war. Somehow he made all that excitement come back, it was fascinating.
Hey Em how are you? Soooo can I request a ship? I'm Jess (she/her), im in my late 20s, I'm 5 ft 3, I have short (peaky blinders style hehe) dark brown hair and light brown eyes, as far as I know (I did the test once) my MTBI is INTJ??? I consider myself a cat person, but I also like dogs too, what else? Oh I really love outdoor activities such as hiking because I love nature, rocks and maps!!! I'm a bookworm, kinda nerdy and really musical fueled person and my faves are jazz, bossa nova and classic rock music (as you know). My love language is probably small acts of service and tiny little stuff here and there and I can't think anything else interesting to tell you :(
AAAAAAAAA HI JESS!!!! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to your ship 😅🫠 thank you for being so kind and patient!! I had a lot of fun writing this one lol 😆 Love you and hope you enjoy!!
I ship you with...
Ron Speirs!
A song from my playlist that reminds me of y’all’s relationship - You’re My Best Friend by Queen
How you met
So I’m picturing you’re part of WAC and assigned to be an administrator/runner person with Easy Company
It’s towards the end of the war in Hagenau
Ron was getting frustrated with all the paperwork bullshit he needed to do as Easy Company’s new CO
He was in his makeshift office trying to filter through papers when he heard a knock
“What is it?” He all but barks at the intruder
You come in and all of a sudden the paperwork doesn’t matter
For one thing, he is FLOORED
Your hair and eyes are just fucking striking, and you had this air about you
Usually everyone was intimidated by Ron, especially when first meeting him, but you didn’t seem put off in the slightest - you held your own
“Captain Speirs, here are the documents you requested, and a couple of others from Regiment”
He had to compose himself before opening his mouth, otherwise his tongue probably would’ve rolled onto the floor
“Thank you Sergeant… will that be all?”
Usually you were the one to ask that question, but Ron wasn’t really ready for you to leave the room
“Um, yes sir”
“Alright, dismissed”
Later that day he phoned Regiment and asked for you to be assigned as his orderly
How he knew he loves you
So you’ve been working as Ron’s orderly for a while, and the two of you work like a well-oiled machine
Like Easy Company has never been so efficient and organized
The two of you almost seemed to have your own code, and it bewildered everyone in Easy Company
How were you not afraid of him? And How were you able to tell him what to do?
You had grown to like Ron a little more than a Sergeant should like an officer, but you never acted on it
So y’all are in Austria and everyone is getting excited to go home
Ron was in a similar mindset, but then he realized
All of his daydreams about being home involved you
How the fuck did you wind your way into his mind? What was he going to do? Was he really going to ask you to come home with him? If not, could he live without you?
“Ron!”
Your voice snapped the officer back to reality, but soon he was lost again
He was looking into your eyes, displaying a certain passion he had never seen before
It was now or never
Ron walked to where you were, on the other side of his desk, put his hands on your shoulders, and gently but confidently pressed his lips to yours
Time stopped while the two of you kissed, and neither of you could believe it was really happening
“Come back to Boston with me, Jess,” he asked you quietly, only pulling away enough to ask the question
Your brain was still going a million miles a minute, but you were able to focus enough to say
“Yes sir”
A conflict that arose and how y’all solved it
So you like to have your introvert time outdoors, and you usually let Ron know if you’re going to go on a hike or something
When you woke up Ron had already gotten up and out of bed, when you went out to the kitchen Ron was there with a cute lil bedhead making breakfast
You wrapped your arms around his slutty lil waist and planted a kiss on his shoulder “Morning, sunshine”
He smiled and turned around to wrap his arms around you and place a lil kiss on your nose “Morning doll, you going on your hike today?”
“Yeah, I’m trying a new trail, but I’ll be home before dark”
“Alright, you be safe for me”
“Yes sir”
So you go on your hike and it’s a fun little trail but it takes longer than you anticipated and it’s a couple of hours after sunset by the time you get home
You open the door and you notice Ron pacing in your living room
He sees you open the door and locks eyes with you, and his eyes are angry
“Where the fuck have you been!?”
You stood there for a moment like a deer in the headlights
“I was… on my hike…”
“You said you’d be home before sunset! It’s almost 11!” Ron yelled, he’s never yelled at you before and it was something you hoped never to experience again
“I-it took longer than I thought Ron… I’m sorry…” You were trying to keep a calm and level voice, but Ron just seemed so upset
Ron heard the tone in your voice and automatically knew he was being rather harsh
He bit his lip in frustration and looked around the room, tapping his foot anxiously
“I read a story in the paper today after you left, there were a couple of hikers that disappeared on a trail near here…”
His voice was quiet, almost cracking?
“I…I was scared when you didn’t come home…”
Ron looked up at the ceiling, begging the tears not to fall from his eyes
Your heart just sank as you ran over to him, enveloping him in a hug
“Oh Ron, I’m so sorry, the trail was just longer than I thought”
He buried his face in your neck as quiet sobs left his mouth
The two of you just stood there for a moment, holding each other close
“I don’t want to ask you not to go on hikes, Jess, but the idea of you just disappearing is terrifying…”
“How about you come with me on my next one?” You put your hands on his cheeks and gently turn his face to look into his eyes
He smiles softly at your suggestion and nods his head
The two of you share a soft kiss before settling in for the night
Your happily ever after (what your relationship looks like!)
This man does everything for you and there’s nothing you can do to stop him
Breakfast? Made and plated when you get out of bed
Dishes? Done yesterday
Your car broke down? He drives you to work and takes your car to the shop
Literally Ron would do absolutely anything for you
Sometimes though you beat him to something (like you do the dishes before he gets to it) and he’s just so… moved?
Like the idea of someone doing something for him is just so foreign so when you cook dinner or do the laundry he just falls in love with you all over again
A silly headcannon about your relationship!
So you tell Ron you consider yourself a cat person
Sweet boy decides to get you a kitten for your birthday
He has no idea where to even begin with it though
He enlists the help of *drunk Speirs voice* LIEUTENANT LIPTON
He picks the most adorable, affectionate kitten EVER and keeps it at Lipton’s place until it’s your birthday
The morning of your birthday he’s arranging everything to be super cute and sweet and decorated when you wake up - I’m talking balloons on your chair, special birthday pancakes, the works
He snuck out last night to pick up the kitten so he could give her to you later in the afternoon
But the sweet baby escapes her carrier and makes her way into the kitchen
You wake up to a loud crash and run to the kitchen
The kitchen is in tatters and Ron is out of breath sitting on the floor, covered in maple syrup and the kitten sleeping on top of his head
He sees you and you SWEAR there’s a blush on his cheeks
“Happy birthday darling,” he offers in a defeated tone
All you can do is laugh before kneeling next to Ron (and take a Polaroid of him with the kitten)
“Who’s this lil baby?” You ask as you take the sleepy kitten in your arms
“Your birthday present…”
Your eyes just light up and you look down at your new fur baby before pulling Ron into a tight hug (forgetting he’s covered in maple syrup)
“Do you like your gift love?”
“Yes sir”
Thank you again for the request Jess!!! Hope you enjoyed it 💕🩷✨
Hᴇ Dᴇꜰɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ Dᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ Hᴀᴛᴇ Mᴇ [Rᴏɴᴀʟᴅ Sᴘᴇɪʀs x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]
Pairing: Ronald Speirs x Female Reader
Genre: Funny fluff
Warnings: uhhh i guess warfare talks and mentions of firearms
A/N Just a random Speirs mini-shot that i had a fun thought of while watching The Breaking Point...
“Good luck ladies.”
Easy company was moving back to its old position in the forest that sat looking over Foy. Four were left tethered to the end of the line made up of Dog company men. Perconte sat behind Christensen as they both chuckled at the comments of the leaving Easy men that had been about a particular D-Company officer. The new kid had watched the other men wander away but looked more confused as every passing remark was made. He glanced at the two men and the woman beside him before deciding he too would try to look entertained.
“Been nice knowing yah.”
“Wouldn’t drink too much if i were you.”
“Hey. Be careful if he offers you a cigarette.”
“What are they talking bout? If who offers us a cigarette?” The new kid had finally decided to speak up as pure confusion finally set in and the opportunity to ask had arisen.
“Speirs.”
“Who?”
Toye and Guarnere shared a look before smirking in Y/N’s direction as she sat pretending to clean her rifle, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she glanced up at the two of them passing. They knew, of course, as did a few of the other men she had grown close with; Toye, Guarnere, Lipton, Buck, hell even Nixon. The legendary officer with the reputation for violence and the sergeant with the honey coated smile to kill, what a match made in heaven.
“Lieutant Speirs.”
Lipton had patted Y/N gently on the shoulder as he passed muttering a quiet ‘be careful’ to his friend. She’d replied with ‘careful’s my middle name’ as she dropped her eye in a sly wink to which he rolled his eyes at before moving into the distant snow covered forest. Y/N had watched the remainder of her company disappear, leaving only the four of them to sit in the somewhat shallow foxhole.
“The stories about Speirs are probably all bullshit anyway.” Christensen had said, earning a snort from the woman beside him. He glanced at her with a smirk though he had misinterpreted her reaction to his comment. The new kid had begun to ask about Speirs’ menacing reputation as he seemed to grow more and more intrigued by what he had heard.
“Well supposedly Speirs shot one of his own men for being drunk.” Perconte had answered with his trusty toothbrush held between his teeth, his arms wrapping around himself to find some warmth.
“You’re kidding. That’s unbelievable.” The kid had replied in awe.
After cleaning her rifle, the woman had kept a watchful eye on the line as the men, or two men and one boy, talked beside her. She’d seen his shadow moving in the distance as he approached, holding off from holding her firearm up as the familiar walk of the man confirmed who it was.
“Yeah. And there’s another one about him giving cigarettes to 20 POWs before killing ‘em.”
“If you wanted to know more bout the shit he’s been up to ask Y/N here. Apparently he dislikes her almost as much as our first CO did, ain’t that right Y/N/N?” She let out a huff to cover her amusement as she remembered the day that rumour was started, though she guessed it didn’t cause any problems and in fact, got quite a laugh out of Ron when she told him. She could see the look on Liebgott and Malarkey’s face when they’d come over to her concerned when Speirs had finally wandered off. The man had been angrily yelling, yes, but it wasn’t directed at her. After one too many screw ups from her newest CO, Lieutenant Dike, Ron was sent into a fit about how he was supposed to be ensuring her safety, and yet that was far from it. Obviously the boys had believed he had been yelling at her, as she had appeared upset. She had, indeed, been upset after Ron had whispered several comments like ‘the thought of losing you is almost physically painful’ and ‘if that bastard would spend less time going on walks and more time ensuring his company is looked after i wouldn’t have to be sitting here so fucking worried Y/N’. So you could say there had been more evidence to believe this rumour compared to the others but even this one wasn’t completely right. “And also I heard it was more like 30.” Perconte had continued.
By now, Y/N was staring straight into her lover’s eyes as he stood so close, the look of pure amusement swimming deep in them as he listened. The woman’s lips tilted in a smirk as she waited for the other men to get the fright of their lives.
“Christensen.” He spoke suddenly, causing everyone save Y/N to jump out of their skin. They looked at him trying to not show how intimidated they were by the man that crouched before them. Ron’s eyes had wandered to Y/N quickly, giving her a once over to ensure she was okay, and when receiving a nod of confirmation, had turned back to look at the man he had addressed as he replied. “I got the name right didn’t I? Christensen?”
Ron continued to ask the men some questions, with Y/N sitting there quietly watching the line while trying not to laugh at the way the men had all tensed up. Her attention had turned back to her lover fully when he had questioned Dike’s insistence on not reinforcing their shallow foxhole, the bitterness clear on his tongue as he all but hissed the question out. His eyes had moved to her on her place at the edge of the foxhole, her body leaning slightly over the side with her hip pushed against Christensen’s side to make her as comfortable as possible in the small space. The men had watched the fiery look that the officer had sent her, once again, assuming nothing but the worst. But she had known the meaning behind it and was only able to send him a reassuring calm look to try and cure his anger.
His jaw had tightened as he pushed himself to stand, beginning to all but stomp away from four of them. Perconte had let out a quiet breath, glancing at Y/N quickly before whispering about how much the man must hate her. Ron’s ears had perked up at the comment before he spun around quickly, one of his hands moving to grasp at his lucky strikes.
“Oh, anyone care for a smoke?” He’d asked, and he watched as the smirk rose quickly to Y/N’s lips. She’d glanced at the three of them and took in their expressions, taking a mental picture of the amusing moment. They had all but furiously shaken their heads ‘no’ aside from Y/N who tilted her head as a thought popped into her head.
“Yeah i’ll take one, Sir.” The woman said feigning a completely innocent, naive look, causing all three of the men to snap their heads to her. Ron pursed his lips to stop himself from breaking his expression with a smirk before nodding his head and holding one out to her. She leant forward so the man was able to place it directly into her mouth before staring straight up at him through her eyelashes. The man’s eyes flashed dangerously as he pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit it.
After taking the first inhale, the woman took it from her mouth and flashed the most charming smile she could muster before blowing the smoke directly into the man’s face. Ron looked almost taken back but no sense of anger crossed behind his gaze, but he trusted the woman was only having her fun as she always did. Perconte had proceeded to drop his toothbrush from his widened mouth in shock as he waited for the coming demise of the woman he’d come to adore as his friend. Christensen looked on in similar fashion as he glanced between the two figures, one who still held a witty smile and the other who looked like he wanted wreck the young woman; guess that wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Thank you Lieutenant.” She had said while taking another drag of the cigarette. The man had only nodded, his eyes squinting curiously at his lover as he rose from his crouched position and took a single step back. The three other men had looked at her like she’d grown three heads and sprouted wings as she took a glance at them, her lips only twitching into an even bigger smile. She had made a decision in that split second as she revelled in the situation she was in, turning back to Ron who still stared at her, now with a much softer look.
“While we’re at it, maybe I could get a kiss too, baby?” She’d boldly exclaimed and she was sure she’d heard Perconte almost collapse in shock, a quiet but clearly strangle gasp leaving his lips. Ron had caught on by this point to her fun little game of amusement and just let play away as he crouched once more. She had leant over the edge of the foxhole again as she had when he had passed her a cigarette while he had moved his hand to grasp the back of her neck, his fingers intertwined with the braid that had sat there. She had smiled at him, rocking onto her hands to push herself higher to him before placing her lips firmly to his as he did the same in return. She felt as the tension swept off his shoulders while she kissed him so strongly. It had been so long since they’d even been able to hold each other and now they were lost in the idea of one another’s lips.
Ron pulled away first as he remembered his place, but not before he leant his forehead on hers and sending her the smallest of smiles.
“You look after yourself, you got that? Or so help me-”
“Baby, I’ve got this.” She’d replied gently while he pulled away fully, and moved to stand. He briefly glanced at the men and held back a smirk as one of them looked ready to pass out and the other two were borderline shell-shocked. He nodded once more before wandering off into the mist and disappearing completely. Y/N watched him until her was gone with a dreamy look in her eyes until she shook herself from her own loved up mind and turned back to the men beside her. None of them were even able to form words, with the closest communication being Christensen as he just pointed towards where Ron had left with his mouth opening and closing like a fish. In all honesty, she was surprised Perconte was still breathing as he just stared with the widest eyes at the woman before him. She just smirked at them before wiping the back of her gloved hand across her lips dramatically.
“I think now would be a good time to let you know, he definitely doesn’t hate me.”
