midnightdraftqueen

[midnightdraftqueen]

THE LIBERATION BALL

Speirs x OC!Nurse | Fluff

Warnings: None

As always, this story is based on the dramatized 2001 HBO series - Band of Brothers. This story is not meant to disparage or otherwise belittle the real stories of Easy Company and others that sacrificed their lives in World War II and armed conflicts thereafter.

It started with a whisper—an idea barely louder than the laughter of little girls.

The town was quiet now. Not empty, not eerie, just quiet in the way peace can be, when it’s new and everyone is still holding their breath to be sure it’s real. Easy Company had been quartered here just two days, tucked into aging stone apartments and half-crumbled storefronts that still bore the scars of occupation. Margaret Sinclair and the other rear aid station nurses were lucky to find themselves all in one building, crowded in with three families who hadn’t evacuated, who’d stayed through the worst of it.

The girls were the first to warm.

They spoke in halting English, eyes wide with fascination as they watched the nurses dab on lipstick with trembling hands, comb their hair into tidy plaits, and scrub blood from bandages like it was nothing. Louisa, no more than nine, had immediately taken to Maggie, her hands tugging gently at Maggie’s sleeve the second morning.

“Mademoiselle… a ball. With dancing.”

“A… ball?” Maggie repeated, and Louisa beamed.

“Oui! A ball. For… happy. For… not crying.”

Maggie’s throat caught.

The other nurses rallied around the idea like it was a mission briefing. A young boy named Peter, no taller than the mess tin he insisted on carrying, was sent running up and down the street to pass the word. By afternoon, the entire block was humming with preparation. Mothers shook their heads, insisting it was too much, too kind. But the nurses wouldn’t hear it.

“You let us in your homes,” Maggie told one woman, hands still wrapped around the ribbon she was tying into Louisa’s hair. “This is the least we can do.”

The ball took shape in that magical, haphazard way only children’s dreams can.

Old dresses were pulled from chests, still faintly smelling of cedar and time. Shoes were polished until the scuffs shone like badges. Louisa’s dress was a size too small, its sleeves pinching her arms and the hem barely brushing her knees, but she twirled like it was made of diamonds.

Someone found a phonograph and a handful of records. Tinny French waltzes warbled through the broken windowpanes. Tables were dragged into the cobbled street, covered in wrinkled linens and set with chipped plates. Dandelions and daisies, picked from the edges of old craters, stood proudly in cracked jam jars.

Snacks were cobbled together from cupboard corners—hard cheese, tins of fish, one blessed jar of cherry preserves—and whatever the nurses could spare from their rations.

The girls gathered shyly, unsure of where to begin. But one of the nurses stepped forward, spinning Louisa in a slow, careful circle, and suddenly the street was alive. They danced in groups, in circles, even alone. Some of the little boys tried to mimic them, only to devolve into wild whoops and staged tumbles that sent the girls into fits of giggles.

And then, a ripple of surprise.

The sound of boots.

The boys from Easy Company appeared—drawn like moths to the laughter. Winters at the front, arms casually behind his back, nodded once to the gathered crowd.

“We heard some ladies were throwing a ball,” he said with a small smile. “Figured you might need a few more suitors.”

Gasps and wide eyes. Peter actually dropped his mess tin.

The girls froze in delight.

Winters bowed deeply and offered his hand to the first little girl brave enough to step forward. She curtsied, awkward and delighted, and the entire block erupted into cheers.

Liebgott, half-smiling in that unreadable way of his, lifted Louisa into a proper waltz hold while Luz cut in to spin her sister in a clumsy circle. Perconte and Randleman began a mock duel for the children’s amusement.

Even Nixon got roped into helping pour “champagne”—water and apple juice into mismatched teacups—as Maggie hovered nearby, tucking curls behind ears and smoothing skirts with the kind of reverence usually reserved for battlefield wounds.

For a moment, no one was crying.

The sky turned a soft pink as the sun began to dip, and the girls, breathless and glowing, clung to their dance partners like royalty. Maggie stood with her arms crossed, watching the swirl of it all: a street turned ballroom, soldiers turned knights, a war briefly forgotten.

Winters came to stand beside her, brushing the edge of his sleeve with one hand. “You did all this?”

Maggie shook her head. “Louisa did. We just followed orders.”

He glanced at the girl—now beaming up at Toye as he handed her a wildflower.

“She’s going to remember this night for the rest of her life,” he said quietly.

Maggie nodded. “So are we.”

Eventually, the light faded to gold and the street was bathed in the hues of a setting sun and the warmth of laughter that bounced off stone walls.

Tables sagged gently beneath the weight of empty cups and half-shared army chocolate. Maggie stood with one hand on her hip and the other resting lightly on Louisa’s shoulder as the girl caught her breath from another round of twirls. Peter had passed out, slumped against a nurse’s lap with crumbs on his cheeks.

But… not everyone was in the thick of it.

Off to the edge of the square, just past the reach of the phonograph’s crackling music, a small knot of older boys hovered in a clump—arms crossed, noses wrinkled, feet shifting like they might bolt at any second. They watched the dancing with furrowed brows and muttered in French too quick for the nurses to catch.

But one soldier noticed.

Ronald Speirs, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a stripe of dirt still clinging to one cheek, strode toward them with casual purpose. He held a tin cup in one hand and the gaze of a man who’d crossed battlefields more comfortably than ballrooms.

He came to a stop beside them and looked down. “What’s the problem here?”

The tallest of the boys—Jean-Luc, maybe eleven—lifted his chin. “Boys are tough,” he said in broken English. “They don’t dance in circles.”

A ripple of agreement passed through the group like a nervous current.

Speirs didn’t flinch. He nodded once, slowly. “Maybe not in circles.” Then he leaned down, just slightly, voice low and conspiratorial. “But boys who are tough dance with pretty girls. Don’t they?”

Jean-Luc’s mouth opened and closed. He glanced sidelong toward the makeshift dance floor where Louisa, cheeks flushed and smile bright, was laughing with one of the nurses.

Speirs followed his gaze. “I’ve seen you watching her.”

The boy flushed crimson.

“She’s pretty,” Speirs continued. “And smart. Nurse Sinclair told us she’s the one who put this whole thing together.”

Jean-Luc’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Louisa… got soldiers to come play with us?”

“Yes, she did.” Speirs looked him square in the eye, expression unreadable but his tone just dry enough to provoke. “And if you don’t go dance with her—I will.”

That was all it took.

Jean-Luc’s shoulders stiffened. With a deep breath, he stepped forward. He walked straight across the cobbles, pausing just behind Louisa and tapping her shoulder. She turned, surprised. He awkwardly offered his hands in something that resembled a waltz hold.

Louisa’s face lit up.

She took his hands without hesitation, and they began to move—hesitant steps, uneven turns, more shuffle than spin. But it was dancing, no doubt about it.

The other boys stared like they’d just witnessed a miracle. Then they turned, wide-eyed, to Speirs.

He didn’t smile, exactly. But something like pride flickered behind his eyes as he barked, “What are you waiting for? MOVE, MEN. MOVE.”

The boys scattered like troops under orders, each scrambling toward a girl, a partner, a piece of the joy that had suddenly become acceptable.

The street erupted into a fresh wave of laughter.

Parents clapped from their stoops, nurses cheered. Maggie caught Speirs’s eye from across the square and shook her head fondly. He gave a barely-there shrug and smirked and took the now-empty tin cup with him as he strolled back toward the dance floor, passing Louisa and Jean-Luc as they spun into a too-fast turn and collapsed into a fit of giggles.

And behind them all, the phonograph played on—scratchy, warbled, perfect.

The music softened as the evening wore on—less wild giggles and chaotic twirls now, more swaying shadows and sleepy smiles. Some of the littlest ones had begun to nod off, heads in laps and fingers sticky with jam. A few older children still circled each other in mismatched pairs, reluctant to let the night end.

Louisa, never one to let a good moment slip away, clutched the edges of her skirt and spun once, her laughter ringing like a bell. Then she stopped—eyes scanning the crowd of adults lining the edge of the square, lounging on steps and folding chairs, sipping from tin cups, hands idle.

She narrowed her gaze.

“The grown-ups,” she whispered to Jean-Luc. “They don’t dance.”

Jean-Luc followed her line of sight and nodded solemnly. “We fix that.”

They moved like a miniature tactical unit. Louisa zeroed in on another nurse, Este, who was mid-sentence when she was grabbed by the hand. “Come on!” Louisa declared.

“Louisa—” Este started, laughing, but the girl wouldn’t be denied.

“You dance now,” she insisted, tugging Este straight toward George Luz, who blinked as he realized he was being ambushed.

“She’s yours!” Louisa said, beaming, and gave Este a final push.

Luz looked at Este, grinned, and offered a dramatic bow. “Well, if the lady insists.”

Este rolled her eyes but smiled and took his hand. “Try not to step on my toes, radio boy.”

Elsewhere, Jean-Luc had his own plan.

He approached Speirs slowly, hands tucked behind his back, wearing the same faint smirk Speirs himself had worn earlier.

Speirs eyed him. “What?”

Jean-Luc tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You watch Nurse Maggie.”

That made Speirs pause. His brow lifted—just a little. “I do, huh?”

Jean-Luc crossed his arms. “You go dance. Or I will.”

Speirs blinked, and then—surprisingly—chuckled.

“Okay, kid,” he said with a shake of his head. “Touché.”

Across the square, Maggie stood near the edge of a table, her hands brushing down the front of her skirt as she straightened a wildflower vase. She turned at the sound of footsteps.

Speirs stopped just in front of her, hands loose at his sides.

“Looks like I’ve been challenged,” he said, nodding toward Jean-Luc, who gave a smug little wave from behind. “Kid called my bluff.”

Maggie laughed. “So now you have to dance?”

“I guess I do,” he said, extending a hand. “Unless you’re going to make me look bad in front of a bunch of ten-year-olds.”

She took his hand with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The music played on—soft, sweet, a simple waltz from a scratched record—and Speirs stepped in, placing a careful hand on her waist, leading like it was something he’d done a thousand times.

Maggie blinked in surprise as he turned her, the motion smooth and sure.

“You’re good,” she said.

He gave a tiny shrug. “My mother insisted. Said a man should know how to dance and write a proper thank-you note.”

She laughed as he spun her. “I bet you’re hell with stationery.”

He grinned—an actual grin—as they moved together, his steps guiding her through the slow rhythm of the street-turned-ballroom.

Then, without warning, he dipped her.

A perfect, movie-worthy swoop that pulled a chorus of gasps and dreamy squeals from the watching girls. Louisa clasped her hands over her heart. Este did a double-take mid-spin with Luz. Even Perconte let out a whistle.

Only Winters didn’t blink—just raised his cup toward the pair and nodded, like he’d known all along.

Maggie’s breath caught, but she was laughing as he pulled her back upright, one hand steady on her back.

“Well,” she said, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “That was unexpected.”

Speirs tilted his head, still holding her hand. “That’s war, Nurse Sinclair.” He offered a sly smile. “Always keep ’em guessing.”

As the music carried on, more adults joined the dance—mothers pulling fathers into long-forgotten steps, nurses trading partners with soldiers, laughter echoing under the stars.

And for a few more minutes, the war receded again—tucked behind the walls, hidden beneath the rhythm of old records and the flicker of candlelight.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The last notes of music had long since faded, replaced by the soft scrape of chairs being tucked in and laughter drifting into low murmurs. The stars above the town shone unobstructed for the first time in years—no blackouts, no bombs. Just quiet.

Soldiers helped sweep the street clean, Luz dramatically balancing a cracked plate on his head before depositing it with a bow into a bucket. Winters had rolled up his sleeves and was folding table linens with the quiet precision of a man who found comfort in order.

Parents gathered their children like petals—cradling tired limbs, brushing dirt from knees, whispering promises of warm baths and soft pillows.

Maggie sat on the stoop of the apartment building, Louisa fast asleep against her side, her arms still curled like she’d been dancing in her dreams.

Speirs approached without a word.

He crouched, hands gentle as he slid one arm beneath Louisa’s legs, the other behind her back. She stirred just once—then curled instinctively into his chest like she’d always belonged there.

Maggie stood and followed, her steps light beside his boots as they walked inside.

In the kitchen, her mother, Jeanne, stood at the sink, sleeves rolled and hands slick with suds as she washed sticky cups and jelly-smeared plates. She turned when she heard them, a tired but soft smile on her face.

“My sweet girl,” she said in French-accented English, “I saw her really smile tonight. A real one. First time in a long time.”

Speirs nodded once, voice quiet. “Where should I put her?”

Jeanne dried her hands on a dishcloth and gestured down the hallway. “My room. At the end of the hall. The girls sleep with me since their papa went into the resistance. He is away. To keep us safe.”

He met her eyes—something unsaid but understood between them—then carried Louisa down the hall.

Maggie followed, silent.

They entered the room where Louisa’s sister already lay asleep, a stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her chin. Speirs knelt and gently laid Louisa down, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.

Maggie stepped in and smoothed Louisa’s hair, fingers lingering just a moment longer. Then she straightened, and together they slipped from the room, pulling the door closed behind them with the softest click.

In the kitchen, Jeanne was still at the sink.

“You were good with her,” Maggie said as they walked back toward the front door.

Speirs gave her a sidelong glance. “You sound like that surprises you.”

“It does,” she replied, then stopped walking, turning to face him. “But not because I didn’t think you were capable. Because I thought you wouldn’t want to ruin that killer reputation. Though I think your dancing prowess might have already poked holes in that.”

He smiled. An honest, warm, quiet thing. “I think I’ve got enough of a reputation that the men know well enough not to ask questions. Besides, like I said… you’ve got to keep ‘em guessing.”

“Ahh,” Maggie teased, arms crossing. “It’s all part of the bigger strategy. Your twinkle toes and way with children are tactics to maintain mystique.”

He tilted his head. “Hmm. You might be a better intelligence officer than Nixon.”

She let out a laugh—surprised and delighted. “I’m definitely telling him you said that.”

From the sink, Jeanne turned, catching sight of them in the low light.

“Lieutenant,” she asked, not stern but curious, “you leave?”

Speirs nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am. I figured I’d let you ladies get some sleep.”

But Jeanne just shook her head and said, “You can sleep here, no? Real bed in Louisa’s room. With Margaret.”

Maggie blinked. “Jeanne, that might not be—”

But Jeanne only raised a brow, that distinctly maternal mix of grace and steel. “No scandal here. Besides…” She nodded toward the door. “Your friend Este, she went off with that loud little one she danced with. I doubt she will be back tonight.”

Maggie turned to Speirs, mouth twitching. “Well, Lieutenant… you up for a sleepover?”

He looked at her, at the warmth still lingering in the air, at the clean plates stacked and the hum of peace under the surface of it all. Then he gave a small smirk.

“I guess it’ll add another layer to my coordinated mystique ”

The house was still as they made their way down the hall.

From the kitchen came the faint sound of Jeanne washing the last few dishes, her movements gentle, like even the clinking of cups was afraid to break the spell of the night.

Maggie stood in what had once been Louisa’s bedroom—now hastily repurposed with army blankets and a secondhand pillow for her use. A tiny dresser still held chipped ceramic animals and the frayed ribbon of a childhood once uninterrupted.

Speirs leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He hadn’t said anything when Maggie changed into her cotton nightshirt—he’d respectfully turned to face the shelves, as if pretending to study the titles of worn French books he couldn’t read. But she could feel his presence all the same, like static in the air.

“You stand like you’re guarding the door or considering a war crime.” she said lightly, sliding her brush through her hair.

His mouth twitched. “Muscle memory.”

She tossed the brush onto the dresser and turned to face him. “You staying?”

“I’ve been invited,” he said. “By two women who are terrifying in very different ways.”

That made her laugh.

He stepped into the room then, slowly, and looked around. “This used to be Louisa’s?”

Maggie nodded. “Jeanne said she insisted I sleep here. Said it would make her feel better. Like she was doing something for us.”

He looked at the faded bedspread, still patterned with flowers, and the stack of folded pajamas left on the chair. “She did plenty.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Maggie sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her legs up under the blanket. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. I’m not that cruel.”

“I’ve slept in foxholes, Margaret,” he deadpanned. “I think I’ll survive a wooden floor.”

But she just lifted the corner of the blanket. “There’s room.”

He hesitated.

“You’re not scandalizing me,” she added softly. “Just… don’t be weird about it.”

That earned a rare huff of amusement. “Copy that.”

He moved around the bed, pulled off his boots with quiet efficiency, and lay down beside her on top of the blanket, arms folded behind his head.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Outside, a dog barked in the distance.

Maggie turned her head slightly, studying the way the moonlight caught on his lashes. “You really are full of surprises.”

“I try.”

“You twirled me around the street like it was second nature,” she said. “Carried a sleeping child. Talked big tough boys into dancing.”

He turned his face toward her, one brow arching. “You left out bedding down beside a nurse in a floral twin bed.”

“That too.” Her smile curled, sleep-heavy but sincere. “Ronald Speirs: war hero and master of unexpected tenderness.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She looked at him, earnestly. “I don’t.”

And with nothing left to prove, and no one left to impress, they both sank into the hush of night.

Not touching. But close.

Breathing in the same silence.

Morning slipped in slowly, casting gold through the worn curtains of Louisa’s old bedroom. Maggie stirred first, blinking against the warm light. Her arm was flung over the edge of the mattress, and the faint scent of soap and dust filled the air.

Ron was still beside her, flat on his back, arms folded loosely over his stomach. The floor creaked as Maggie sat up, stretching, hair a tangle over one shoulder.

“You snore,” she murmured.

“No, I don’t,” he replied without opening his eyes.

“You do. Not loud. Just enough to sound smug in your sleep.”

He cracked one eye open. “Smug breathing. Add it to the list.”

Before she could retort, the door banged open.

“Margaret!”

Louisa, in a whirlwind of curls and excitement, burst into the room like a bullet.

Jeanne’s voice followed in rapid-fire French from the hallway. “Louisa! Laisse-les tranquilles!”

The girl froze in the doorway, blinking as she took in the scene—Maggie still half-tangled in the covers, Speirs in undershirt and fatigue pants sitting up calmly, boots still by the door.

Jeanne appeared a breath later, flustered and blushing furiously. “I’m so sorry—désolée—she is excited, she forgets doors.”

Maggie just laughed and waved her off. “It’s alright.”

Ten minutes later, they sat around the kitchen table—Maggie in her uniform jacket now buttoned and tidy, Speirs polished into his usual battle-ready presence. They ate slices of dark bread with jam, sipping watery coffee while Louisa perched on a stool, still talking a mile a minute.

Then the clock chimed the hour, and duty returned.

Speirs had a briefing. Maggie was needed at the rear station to help with triage reports and supply distribution.

They didn’t have time for anything beyond a nod goodbye.

Around lunch, the makeshift mess was a bustling maze of folding tables, tin trays, and clatter. Maggie sat down with a bowl of watery soup and a hunk of bread, wedging herself between Este and one of the clerks from HQ.

Across the room, Speirs sat with Winters, Nixon, and Welsh—each man in varying stages of uniform, field maps and notepads scattered on the table between bites.

Then the door flung open.

Louisa charged in, skirt flaring, determined as a one-girl mission.

“Maggie!”

Maggie immediately stood, eyes scanning for signs of trouble. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Louisa said brightly, holding up a familiar silver glint. “Your soldier left this!”

In her small hand gleamed Speirs’ cigarette lighter.

Across the room, Speirs had frozen mid-sip.

Maggie felt the weight of a hundred eyes snap to her. She smiled through it. “Thank you, sweet girl. I’m sure he’d miss that.”

Louisa nodded, proud as anything. Then—loudly, confidently, and without an ounce of hesitation—she asked, “Are you getting married now? You slept in bed like my mama and papa.”

A clatter as Speirs choked on his coffee.

Winters blinked. Nixon lifted his eyebrows with barely concealed delight. Welsh smirked over his cup.

Around them, murmurs began. Suppressed laughter. Curious glances. A few outright stares.

Maggie threw her head back and laughed. “No, sweetie. I’m not marrying Lieutenant Speirs.”

Louisa frowned, turned, and scanned the room—then landed on him again.

“Good,” she declared. “Because I want to marry him.”

The room erupted.

Luz’s cackle was the loudest. Someone—possibly Perconte—actually slapped the table. Even Winters ducked his head, biting back a smile.

But Speirs stood. Calmly.

He walked across the mess with deliberate steps and knelt down beside Louisa.

“Miss Louisa,” he said, eyes level with hers. “I’m honored. Truly. But I don’t know where the war will take me, and I might be a little too old for you.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t seem old.”

That drew another ripple of laughter.

Speirs grinned. “Even so… I think Jean-Luc might be a good man to keep around.”

Her expression turned thoughtful. “He did dance. And he gave me his dessert.”

Speirs reached up and unpinned one of his collar insignias. Carefully, reverently, he pinned it to her dress. “So you don’t forget me.”

Then he leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to her cheek.

She beamed, eyes bright.

Maggie, watching it all, felt her heart expand in her chest like it had nowhere else to go.

“I’ll walk her home,” she murmured, and Speirs nodded.

As she and Louisa exited into the street, chattering softly, Speirs turned and returned to his seat at the officers’ table.

He sat, deadpan, coffee cup in hand.

The looks hit immediately.

Nixon didn’t even wait. “So… smoking jackets or full tuxedos for the wedding?”

Winters, dry as ever, added, “I’ll speak to Sink about adding a flower girl to the chain of command.”

Speirs raised his coffee. “You’re just jealous no one’s proposed to you.”

Welsh grinned. “If I thought it’d get me a kiss and a pin, I’d kneel right now.”

Around them, the laughter began again, but Speirs didn’t look at them.

He looked toward the door.

Toward the street.

Toward where Maggie and Louisa were walking, hand in hand in the sunlight.

And for the first time that day, he smiled like he didn’t care who saw it.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The sun had long since sunk behind the rooftops, turning the narrow alleys of the little town to soft shadows and golden lamplight. Most of Easy Company was packed up, trucks and gear staged, boots polished and orders given. The lull before movement always felt like a held breath.

Maggie found Speirs near the edge of the courtyard, where the town thinned into fields. He stood alone under a crooked tree, cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke curl toward the stars.

She joined him quietly, hands in her coat pockets, shoulder brushing the worn bark as she leaned beside him.

“You know,” she said, nudging his arm, “your impromptu marriage proposal really turned some heads today.”

He exhaled a soft breath through his nose, amused. “She’s a determined girl.”

“She’s smitten.”

“Clearly,” he muttered, holding the cigarette out to Maggie.

She took it, inhaled, passed it back. “Though I have to say, you didn’t NOT encourage her. You gave her a whole pin, Lieutenant.”

“She earned it,” he said evenly. “Boosting morale.”

“The real kicker though,” he said, tilting his face to look at the woman beside him more clearly, “is how confidently you told her you weren’t marrying me.”

“Aww,” she teased, grinning. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Hmm,” he replied, flicking ash into the grass. “That implies I have feelings to hurt.”

She turned her head, looked at him through the dark. “You do. You’re just very selective about who sees them.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then:

“Well. I guess you should feel honored then.”

She didn’t smile right away. Just looked at him—really looked.

“I am,” she said softly.

That landed between them with a weight neither of them rushed to move.

The wind shifted. Somewhere behind them, a Jeep rolled by. Voices murmured from a barracks window, the low murmur of tired men playing cards, preparing their gear.

And then Maggie bumped her shoulder gently into his.

“If you do ever propose to me,” she said lightly, “I want more than a standard-issue Army insignia pin…I’d at least expect some jump wings.”

That drew a laugh from him—short, low, real.

She laughed too, tipping her head back, letting it spill out without apology.

They stood like that a while longer. Not making promises. Not defining anything. Just sharing a cigarette and a moment of rare peace in a world that rarely offered either.

Eventually, Speirs stubbed out the cigarette against the tree.

“We roll out in the morning,” he said, voice quiet again. “Zero five hundred.”

She nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

He glanced at her one last time, then started to walk back toward his quarters.

Halfway there, he turned back.

“Maggie?”

“Yeah?”

A pause. A flicker of something almost like a smile.

“You’d look good in wings.”

And with that, he disappeared into the dark.

[midnightdraftqueen]

“Je Suis Là”

Nixon x Reader One-Shot | Romantic & Raw

Warnings: None

As always, this story is based on the dramatized 2001 HBO series - Band of Brothers. This story is not meant to disparage or otherwise belittle the real stories of Easy Company and others that sacrificed their lives in World War II and armed conflicts thereafter.

Paris, 1944

The rain had just started when you stepped off the curb outside the Hôtel Pont Royal, the kind that begins soft and slow, more suggestion than storm. The kind that makes the cobblestones slick and the whole city seem to sigh.

Paris was supposed to be a dream. Liberation. Light. Music in the cafés and kisses by the Seine. But this week had been anything but. You’d patched too many wounds, seen too many wide eyes staring at the ceiling, heard too many voices say the name of someone who wasn’t coming back.

You were awarded a three day furlough to Paris. So you set out with no real plans, just a deep-seated to desire to remember who you were before all of it.

That’s when you saw him—leaning against the corner of the building, collar turned up against the chill, a bottle of something brown dangling from one hand.

Captain Lewis Nixon.

You’d seen him before. Knew him in passing. Intelligence officer with Easy. Always sharp. Always a little drunk. A little haunted.

But tonight, he looked wrecked.

You almost walked past. Almost let him vanish into the rain like the rest of your ghosts. But then he looked up—right at you. And his eyes didn’t slide away. They held.

“Rough night?” you asked, your voice low.

He gave a huff of a laugh. “Rough week. Rough war.”

You took a step closer, boots clicking on the wet stone. “You don’t strike me as the wine type,” you said, eyeing the bottle in his hand.

He tilted the bottle. “I’m not, but it’s what was available and I was hoping it would do the trick.”

You nodded, lips quirking. “Does it ever?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a long moment, like he was trying to decide something.

“Want some company?” you asked.

That surprised him. He blinked, then gave a half-shrug. “Sure. Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

“I don’t.”

He gestured vaguely toward the alley beside the hotel. “There’s a little place down the block. Not much, but they serve it cheap.”

You walked with him in silence. The kind that wasn’t heavy, just… open. Like there wasn’t any point pretending either of you were whole tonight.

———

The bar was quiet. Low lights. A chipped piano in the corner someone had given up trying to tune. You slid into a booth across from him. He bought a bottle. Poured two fingers each.

You drank.

You didn’t ask why he was here. Why he wasn’t with his unit. You didn’t have to.

Instead, you asked, “What was she like?”

His hand froze around the glass.

You didn’t apologize. Just held his gaze.

He let out a breath. “Pretty. Smart. Bored, I think.”

You nodded. “She left?”

“Yeah.” A bitter smile. “Took the house. The kid. The dog she hated.”

He swirled his drink. “I’ve only seen my son twice. Once when he was born. Then before Toccoa. I was already in officer training when she found out she was pregnant.”

You listened. Didn’t offer empty condolences. Just let him talk.

“I think I got good at being gone and she got good at living without me.”

You reached for the bottle and topped him off.

He watched you. “What about you? You married?”

You shook your head. “Never found the time.”

“That’s a lie,” he said.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “Maybe I just didn’t want anyone waiting for me.”

He studied you for a long beat. “Smart.”

The rain thickened outside, misting the windows in silver. Inside, the bar faded until it felt like you were the only two people left in Paris.

“I keep thinking,” he said suddenly, “that when this is all over, I won’t know what to do with myself.”

“You will,” you said. “It’ll come back. You’ll come back.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a language he hadn’t heard in years. Then: “You really believe that?”

“I have to.”

Silence. Then—

“Come on,” he said, standing. “Let’s walk.”

———

You walked the river.

The Seine cut the city like a wound, quiet and glittering under the night. Nixon lit a cigarette and offered you one. You took it.

“I used to think I’d really be someone,” he said. “That I’d matter.”

“You do.”

He scoffed.

“You matter to your men,” you said. “To Winters.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” you murmured. “But it’s still true.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes tired but sharp. Glassy from the drink. And something deeper, something flickering.

He stopped walking. You stopped with him.

For a moment, the world stilled.

Then he reached out—hesitant, gentle—and brushed a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and rested your forehead against his.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

“Je suis là,” he echoed, breath warm.

———

You didn’t sleep with him out of pity. And he didn’t kiss you like he was trying to forget.

He kissed you like it was the only real thing left.

Like maybe, for one night, he could come back to himself.

You stayed in his hotel room, curled beneath a threadbare blanket. His hand on your hip. Your breath on his neck. No words.

Morning came slow and soft. Pale gold on the wall.

He looked at you like he might say something, then stopped.

You didn’t push.

You got dressed in silence, smoothed your hair in the mirror, and looked back once before you opened the door.

“You’ll be okay,” you said.

He gave a slow nod. “So will you.”

And that was all.

———

Outside, Paris stirred.

The city was still broken in places. So were you. So was he.

But you’d seen him.

And for one night—that was enough.

[midnightdraftqueen]

Fortune Favors the Bold

Ronald Speirs x Reader

Warnings: None

As always, this story is based on the dramatized 2001 HBO series - Band of Brothers. This story is not meant to disparage or otherwise belittle the real stories of Easy Company and others that sacrificed their lives in World War II and armed conflicts thereafter.

The rumors started shortly after D-Day. The men whispered about Speirs. How he had shot one of his own men and had allegedly given German prisoners cigarettes before brutally gunning them down. Whether it was true or not, it had cemented Ron as some sort of mythical figure. No one dared to take a smoke from him anymore—not after the stories made the rounds.

The rumor had taken on a life of its own. Turned into a joke of sorts. Anytime someone needed a cigarette, there was always some wiseass muttering, “You could always ask Speirs, but he might kill you after.”

You weren’t superstitious, nor were you the type to balk at rumors. You didn’t believe half the things said about him, and as for the rest? Well, you knew the order they’d been given that day. No prisoners.

So when you found yourself patting your pockets and coming up empty one evening, casually asking, “Anyone got a smoke?”, Luz smirked and shot back, “Go ask Speirs.”

A few of the men chuckled, expecting you to roll your eyes or scoff like everyone else did when the joke came up.

Instead, you just shrugged. “Yeah, that’s a safe bet.”

Silence.

Their heads turned in unison, eyes darting between each other as if waiting for you to say you were kidding. You weren’t.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Malarkey blinked.

“Sure,” you said, already stepping away. “He always has some, right?”

The stunned murmurs faded behind you as you crossed the camp, weaving through groups of men until you found Speirs sitting alone, quietly cleaning his weapon. He didn’t look up as you approached.

“Hey, Lieutenant.”

His dark eyes flicked up, brows lifting slightly in question.

“You got a smoke?”

For a second, he just studied you. Not suspiciously, not threateningly—just observing, like he was trying to decide whether you were being serious.

Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, and tapped one out. He handed it to you, and as you slid it between your lips, he flicked his lighter open, cupping the flame against the wind as he lit it for you.

You took a slow drag, savoring the burn before exhaling. “Appreciate it.”

Then, before he could say anything, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—soft, barely there, but enough to leave a warm impression against his skin.

When you pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but something flickered in his gaze. Something amused.

You just smiled, turned on your heel, and walked away.

Behind you, Speirs huffed a quiet breath of laughter, shaking his head as he flicked the lighter closed.

—

A few nights later, you returned to your cot after a long day, rolling your shoulders as you prepared to collapse onto the thin mattress.

But something was waiting for you.

A pack of Lucky Strikes.

Your brows furrowed as you picked it up, turning it over in your hands. A slip of paper was tucked underneath, torn from the corner of an old letter envelope.

Scrawled in bold, precise handwriting were four simple words:

“Fortune favors the bold.”

Below, a signature.

R.S.

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch as you read it again.

Then, with a small chuckle, you tucked the note into your pocket—right next to your fresh pack of Luckies.

[midnightdraftqueen]

Band of Babysitters

Easy Company x Child!Reader | Pure Fluff

Warnings: Cursing; Questionable Babysitting Choices

The boys of Easy find themselves out of their depth when a routine sweep leaves them with an unexpected guest.

As always, this story is based on the dramatized 2001 HBO series - Band of Brothers. This story is not meant to disparage or otherwise belittle the real stories of Easy Company and others that sacrificed their lives in World War II and armed conflicts thereafter.

The town was quiet.

Easy Company moved through the bombed-out streets, clearing the buildings with steady efficiency. It was routine now—stack up, enter, scan, move on. They weren’t expecting trouble, not here, not after the initial push, but caution was habit.

Perconte kicked open a door, rifle up. “Nothing,” he called over his shoulder before stepping inside. Luz followed, Malarkey close behind. They moved through the wreckage—overturned furniture, shattered glass, walls that barely held together. Just another ruined home in a war full of them.

Then Luz stopped. “Hey.”

The others turned to him.

“Did anyone else hear that?”

They paused, listening.

A whimper. Soft, high-pitched. Faint enough that they almost missed it.

The men exchanged glances. Luz’s brows lifted. Malarkey sighed. “That ain’t good.”

They followed the sound, stepping carefully over splintered wood and broken brick. In the next room, half-buried under debris, was a child. A little girl— about two years old—sitting curled up beside a still figure. Her mother.

Perconte exhaled sharply. “Damn.”

The woman’s body was slumped protectively over the child, shielding her from the rubble. She’d died keeping her daughter safe.

The little girl blinked up at them, tear-streaked and silent, hiccupping on shallow breaths. She was covered in dust, her tiny hands gripping the fabric of her mother’s dress.

For a second, none of them moved.

Then Malarkey muttered, “Well, shit. Anybody know what we do with that?”

Perconte scratched the back of his head. “Ain’t exactly in basic training.”

“She’s alive,” Luz said.

“Yeah,” Malarkey muttered, shifting his rifle. “Now what?”

Luz clapped a hand on Malarkey’s shoulder. “Call Roe.”

Malarkey frowned. “Why? She’s not wounded.”

“She’s alive.” Luz shot back. “It’s Doc’s specialty keeping alive things alive… isn’t it?”

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

Perconte jogged through the ruined streets, boots crunching over debris as he made his way toward the makeshift aid station. He found Roe sitting outside, rolling a cigarette, while Lipton stood nearby, speaking quietly with one of the nurses.

“Hey, Doc,” Perconte called. “We got a situation.”

Roe glanced up, flicking his lighter closed. “Somebody shot?”

“Uh… no,” Perconte admitted. “More like… we found something.”

Lipton frowned. “What kind of something?”

Perconte hesitated, scratching the back of his head. “You just gotta see it.”

Roe exchanged a look with Lipton before standing. “Alright. Let’s go.”

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The moment Roe stepped inside the building and saw the little girl, his expression shifted. He crouched beside her without a word, his usually sharp demeanor softening as he ran careful hands over her arms, checking for bruises, cuts—anything out of place. The girl flinched slightly but didn’t cry, just stared up at him with wide, tired eyes.

“She alright?” Lipton asked.

“She’s not hurt,” Roe murmured. “Dehydrated. Probably hasn’t eaten in a while.” He gently lifted one of her tiny hands, frowning at how cold it was. “We need to warm her up, get some fluids in her.”

“Right,” Malarkey said. “So what do we do?”

Roe exhaled, sitting back on his heels. “Take her to the aid station.”

The men nodded like that had been the plan all along.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The nurse looked from the baby to the men standing awkwardly in front of her, then back to the baby.

“…What do you expect me to do?” she asked flatly.

“You’re a nurse,” Malarkey tried.

She arched a brow.

“And a woman,” Luz added.

The nurse inhaled slowly, as though counting to ten in her head. Then she rubbed at her temple. “So what, that means I have all the secrets of childcare?”

The men exchanged glances.

“…Yes?” Luz offered weakly.

She let out a long sigh, rolling her shoulders back. “Alright, boys. Here we go.”

Her tone shifted, all business.

“Luz—find me some clean cloths and safety pins.”

Luz snapped a mock salute. “On it.”

“Perconte,” she continued, pointing at him. “Go pull MREs with soft food. Applesauce, oatmeal, mashed potatoes—whatever she won’t choke on.”

“Got it,” Perconte said.

“Malarkey,” she turned to him next, “go back to where you found her. See if you can salvage any clothes. And grab Speirs. If anyone can find her something in this mess, it’s him.”

Malarkey blinked. “You mean ‘cause he—”

“Yes,” she cut in. “Because he finds things.

Malarkey smirked. “Roger that.”

“Gene,” she said, turning to Roe, “you stay here and help clean her up. Check her over again, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

Roe nodded.

“And for the love of God,” she finished, hands on her hips, “somebody go get Winters.”

The men hesitated.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Move it, men!”

The room erupted into action.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The little girl sat freshly cleaned in Lipton’s lap, bundled in a too-big, questionably patterned dress that Speirs had managed to scavenge from… somewhere. The moment she was settled, she let out a sudden wail, tiny face scrunching up in distress.

Lipton winced, rocking her slightly. “Aw, come on, kid. You were fine a second ago.” He glanced down at her outfit, grimacing. “Y’know, maybe it’s the dress. I don’t blame you—I’d cry too.”

Speirs, standing off to the side, raised a brow. “It’s not the dress. It’s you.”

Before Lipton could adjust his hold, the baby hiccupped through her sobs, little arms reaching toward Speirs.

The men collectively held their breath.

Speirs didn’t hesitate. He simply reached out, lifted her into his arms with practiced ease, and—just like that—she stopped crying.

Silence.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Malarkey muttered.

Luz let out a low whistle. “Guess we know what it takes to tame Speirs.”

Speirs didn’t even look up. “Say another word, and you’re pulling latrine duty for a week.”

The baby babbled something incoherent, smacking him in the cheek with her tiny hands.

Speirs sighed. “Gotta nice swing. Tougher than the replacements.”

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

A short while later, Luz knelt in front of the little girl, holding a spoonful of applesauce. “Alright, sweetheart. Open up.”

The baby stared at him.

Luz wiggled the spoon. “Come on. Airborne applesauce. It’s got extra—”

The baby slapped the spoon clean out of his hand.

Applesauce splattered across Luz’s shirt.

The men roared with laughter.

Luz stared down at the mess, deadpan. “Okay. That was uncalled for.”

Malarkey wiped tears from his eyes. “Hey Speirs was right… she’s tougher than the replacements.”

“Yeah?” Luz scooped another spoonful, narrowing his eyes. “Well, I got stamina, kid. We’ll see who cracks first.”

The baby smacked the second spoonful straight into his forehead.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

Winters hadn’t hesitated when the nurse suggested a quiet place for the baby to sleep. His quarters were the most private, the warmest. He didn’t mind.

Now, as the room settled into silence, he held the little girl in his arms, her tiny body tucked against his chest. Her eyes were already drooping, her small fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket.

“Alright,” he murmured, carefully lowering her toward the makeshift bed.

The second she lost contact with him, her face scrunched up, and she let out a quiet, miserable wail.

Winters instinctively pulled her back against his chest.

The crying stopped immediately.

He huffed a small, amused breath. “Well. That settles that.”

The nurse smirked from the chair nearby. “You’d be a good father, Major.”

Winters looked down at the little girl, brushing a bit of hair from her forehead.

“Maybe someday,” he murmured.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The next day, the men were hovering.

“Alright, hand her over, Malark.”

“No way, Perco, I just got her.”

“Yeah, well, you’re hoggin’ her.”

“She likes me.”

“She likes all of us, dumbass.”

“I’m just sayin’—”

“Jesus,” Luz muttered, rubbing his temples. “We sound like a bunch of kids at recess.”

Before anyone could argue further, Nixon strolled in, waving a slip of paper. “Alright, boys. I got some news.”

They all looked at him expectantly.

“Tracked down some family,” he announced. “Aunt and grandparents. They evacuated with some other refugees a few towns over. Transport’s arranged—they’re coming to pick her up tomorrow.”

The excitement of the moment dimmed.

The men fell quiet.

None of them said it, but the air in the room shifted. The last twenty-four hours, they’d been caught up in the chaos of taking care of her, of laughing at Luz’s applesauce disaster, of watching Speirs turn into a baby whisperer. Now, it was sinking in—she wasn’t staying.

—————————— 🪖🪖🪖🪖 ——————————

The mood was quiet as the men gathered early the next morning. The baby, oblivious to the melancholy around her, was bundled up against the cold, staring up at them with wide, curious eyes.

Before sending her off, they each gave her something. A small pin, a patch, a lucky charm.

Luz pinned a small Airborne insignia to her jacket.

Malarkey handed over a button from his uniform.

Perconte tucked a tiny scrap of his parachute into her pocket.

Someone with a camera snapped a few pictures—one for them to keep, one to send with her.

When her family arrived, the men stood back as the nurse carefully passed the girl into her grandmother’s arms.

The older woman turned to them, eyes brimming with gratitude. “Thank you. Truly. We will tell her about the kind Americans who took care of her.”

Winters nodded. “She was in good hands.”

The truck rumbled to life, pulling away slowly, taking the little girl with it.

The men stood in silence, watching until she was gone.

Malarkey exhaled, shaking his head. “Damn. Feels weird.”

“Yeah,” Perconte agreed.

“You think she’ll remember us?” Malarkey asked after a beat.

Nixon smirked, looking at the photo.

“If not,” he said, tucking it into his jacket, “she’ll have proof she was once babysat by the toughest damn paratroopers in Europe.”

[midnightdraftqueen]

A Steady Hand (FINAL PART)

PART THREE

Chapter Ten: Is This the End?

September 1945, Austria

The news didn’t come immediately. Weeks passed after Germany surrendered, filled with rumors and speculation, the men stuck in limbo as the world outside continued to shift. The Pacific war loomed over them like a storm cloud, a lingering threat none of them could shake. And then, one evening, it came. Japan had surrendered.

She was standing near the edge of the field when she heard the commotion—laughter, shouts, the kind of unrestrained joy that had been absent for so long. She turned to see Winters making the announcement to a crowd of men near the baseball diamond. The cheers that followed were deafening.Relief swept over her like a wave. No one had to go to the Pacific. Not Winters. Not any of them. The war was truly over.

She watched the celebration unfold, the weight of it settling over her. The men clapped each other on the back, shouting about going home, about seeing family, about finally living beyond the battlefield. She smiled, feeling their joy, but deep down, an unease settled in her chest. What happened now? What happened to whatever had been growing between her and Winters? They had shared something profound, something that had meant everything in the moment. But the war was what had brought them together. With it over, she feared it would slip away, becoming just another piece of history, another thing left behind in Europe.

Later that evening, she found him sitting on the steps behind the barracks, staring out at the fading light. She approached, keeping her voice light, testing the waters.

“So,” she mused, crossing her arms as she stood beside him. “Now that the war is over, are you going to go rejoin your cows and Quaker brethren in Pennsylvania?”

Winters huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Still not a Quaker."

She smirked. "I know. But you never did a good job of convincing the others of that."

He exhaled, looking down at his hands. “Actually, Lew offered me a job. His family business. New Jersey.”

Her brow lifted. “New Jersey? So you’re sticking with Nixon and his antics even in civilian life?”

Winters gave her a sideways glance. “He grows on you.”

She snorted. “Like a stubborn rash.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips before she continued, her tone light. "You know, you’re going to have to find a woman who can tolerate all that—your unwavering loyalty to Lewis Nixon and his near-constant presence."

Winters didn’t miss a beat. "The woman I have in mind already has some experience dealing with Nix."

Her teasing expression faltered as realization dawned. She turned fully to face him. "Is that so?"

For the first time in a long time, Winters smiled—a real, full smile, the kind that reached his eyes.

She held his gaze, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. But there was none. He wanted her to come with him.

She grinned. "Jersey, huh? Well… I guess it can’t be any worse than Bastogne."

Winters chuckled, shaking his head. “No, it really can’t.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, she sat beside him, their shoulders brushing, the quiet promise of a future together settling between them.

Chapter Eleven: Epilogue

April 1948, New Jersey

Winters paced the hospital waiting room, his hands clasped behind his back, tension wound tight in his shoulders. Nixon sat nearby, watching him with an amused smirk, feet propped up on an empty chair.

"You know, wearing a path in the tiles isn't going to make the kid get here any faster," Nixon drawled, swirling what was probably coffee—but knowing him, possibly something stronger. "You’re making me nervous just looking at you."

Winters shot him a look, but Nixon was undeterred. "Christ, Dick, you survived D-Day, Market Garden, held us all together in Bastogne. You’d think you’d be a little less rattled by a baby."

Winters exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is different."

Nixon grinned, leaning forward. "Yeah? How so?"

Winters gave him a flat look. "Because they’re mine. They’re a little person that I helped create.”

Nixon’s smirk softened slightly, something almost fond flickering behind his teasing expression. "Yeah, I guess that would change things."

Before Winters could respond, the nurse appeared in the doorway. “Major Winters?”

He was already moving before she finished speaking. When he stepped into the room, his breath caught. She was propped up in the hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant, cradling a small bundle in her arms. The baby was tiny, pink-cheeked, wrapped snugly in a white blanket.

She looked up at him, smiling softly. "Dick, come meet our daughter." For a moment, he couldn't move. He had faced battle and carried the weight of men’s lives on his shoulders. But nothing had prepared him for this.

Carefully, as if she were the most fragile thing he had ever held, he reached out and took her into his arms. The baby squirmed slightly, her tiny fingers curling against his chest. Winters let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed. "She’s… perfect."

Nixon leaned against the doorway, grinning. "So, do I get the honor of being the godfather, or are you planning on giving that job to someone more responsible?"

Winters chuckled and cast him a quick glance before looking back down at the baby in his arms. "You’ll do."

Nixon crossed his arms. "Damn right, I will. Hope you know this child is going to be incredibly spoiled."

She laughed softly, watching the two men banter, and Winters looked back at her, gratitude filling every part of him. He had made a promise on D-Day, in the dark fields of Normandy.

God, if you get me through this—through the Day of Days and the ones to follow—I’ll find peace. When it’s all over, I’ll live quietly, away from all this.

And now, in this little hospital room, holding his wife while his best friend, his brother, cooed at his new daughter, Dick realized—God had kept His end of the deal. Now it was his turn to keep his.

PART THREE

[midnightdraftqueen]

A Steady Hand (Part 3)

Part Two | Part Four (Final)

Chapter Seven: The Horror of Kaufering

April 1945, Kaufering Concentration Camp

The months rolled on. The bitter cold of winter in the Ardennes finally melted into Spring as Easy pushed through Belgium and into Bavaria. They had seen other skirmishes since Foy, including a prisoner snatch in Hagenau that left PFC Jackson in a damp basement, crying as he choked on his own blood. After that a steady-growing apathy spread its way through the men. Watching Jackson die, it made everything seem so… futile. It had everyone questioning. Was any of this - the pain and the loss - worth it? Then came the camp.

She had seen death before. She had seen men torn apart, crying out for their mothers as the life drained from them. But this — this was different.

The smell hit her first, a putrid mix of decay and rot. The skeletal remains of those who had not been liberated in time lay in shallow pits, their eyes hollow, their bodies twisted. She pressed a hand over her mouth, her stomach roiling.

Winters stood beside her, his face carefully blank. But she knew him now. Knew that behind the mask, something inside him was shattering.

“This wasn’t war,” he said finally, voice tight. “This was something else.”

She swallowed hard. “What do we do?”

His fists clenched at his sides. “We call command for support, get these people help, and make sure it never happens again.”

Chapter Eight: In the Aftermath of Surrender

May 1945, Austria

“All troops stand fast on present position,” That’s what the oder said. Hearing the German army had surrendered while enjoying the view and top-shelf liquor at Hitler’s prized ‘Eagle’s Nest’ felt like some sort of poetic justice. Everyone wanted to celebrate — and they did. But they soon found out that war has a way of lingering, of sinking its claws into men who have known nothing else.

She was at the aid station later in the evening, reorganizing supplies when Roe and Speirs stormed in, Grant’s unconscious body between them on a stretcher. Roe was holding a bottle of plasma over his head, trying to keep Grant from slipping into shock. Blood pooled beneath Grant’s head, staining the stretcher as they laid him down. He had been shot by a drunk and troubled GI from another company after trying to calm the man.

The doctor looked at the wound, his face grim. “There’s nothing I can do. He would need a brain surgeon, and even then there is no guarantee he’d pull through.”

Before she could process what was happening, Speirs had lifted the stretcher again, catching Roe off guard as he scrambled to pick up the other side. She grabbed the plasma bottle from Roe and quickened her pace to follow Speirs as he stormed into the night. She helped Roe keep Grant still and stable as Speirs hoisted the stretcher into the back of a Jeep.

“Where the hell are we going?” she asked, breathless.

“To find a damn brain surgeon,” Speirs replied matter-of-factly.

She’s not sure how he managed it, but after half an hour and multiple conversations with locals in butchered German, Speirs was banging on the door of a German doctor. When he answered, Speirs was standing with his pistol steady in his grip.

“Save him,” Speirs gestured to the Jeep.

The doctor didn’t flinch at the sight of the gun. It was clearly not the first time he had a gun trained on him. “There is no need for the weapon. I’ll do what I can for your friend.”

She watched as Speirs led him to the vehicle, the tension in the air almost suffocating. She checked Grant’s pulse. He was alive, but fading.

“We need to get him into surgery as soon as possible. It will be faster if you let me drive to the hospital,” stated the doctor. “I know the way.”

Speirs silently conceded and climbed into the passenger seat as the doctor, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, slipped behind the wheel.

It was hours before they got word on Grant. The doctor finally emerged, thankfully, with good news. She breathed a sigh of relief as Roe muttered something she assumed was a prayer of gratitude in Cajun French.

When they made it back to camp, Speirs and Roe wasted no time getting to HQ - set up in an extravagantly decorated house - no doubt the former home of a Nazi insider.

Perconte and Randleman were sitting near the glass doors to the parlor, playing poker, barely looking up as Speirs pushed past them. But she saw the way their shoulders stiffened, the slight tension in the air as the sound of blows landing reached her. The man who had shot Grant was already bloodied, slumped in the chair, shielding himself as the others took turns beating him. The rage in the room was thick, palpable.

Speirs didn’t hesitate. He strode in, gun in hand, stepping between the men and the soldier. The room went silent as he raised the pistol and pressed the barrel against the man’s forehead.

“Speirs… don’t.” Roe’s voice was low, a quiet warning.

Speirs didn’t move for a long moment. The man trembled beneath the steel, eyes blown wide with fear. Then, just as suddenly, Speirs lowered the gun and slammed it into the side of the man’s head. The impact was sickeningly loud. The man groaned, slumping forward. Speirs grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up, then throwing him toward the other men.

“Turn this piece of shit over to the MPs.” His voice was ice. The others didn’t argue. They grabbed the soldier roughly, dragging him out of the room. Liebgott paused as the boys moved outside.

“What’s the word on Grant?” he asked hesitantly.

“Kraut doctor says he’s gonna make it.”

Joe gave a quick nod as he went to catch up with the group. Speirs turned without another word, striding out the door. Roe shot her a brief look before following, and she took a steadying breath before stepping away. She found Winters out back. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out at nothing, his expression unreadable. But she knew. She always knew when something was weighing on him.

“Dick,” she said softly, stepping up beside him.

He didn’t turn, but his jaw tensed. “I wanted to be in there.”

She exhaled, nodding. “I know.”

His fingers flexed in his pockets. “I wanted to hit him. I wanted to break something.”

She looked at him, watching the war play out in his eyes. “But you didn’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Because it has to stop somewhere.”

She reached for his hand, hesitating before finally threading her fingers through his. “And you made sure it did.”

He let out a slow breath, squeezing her hand just slightly. For the first time in months, she felt him relax a little.

Chapter Nine - The Argument

June 1945, Austria

The war in Europe was over, but peace had yet to settle. Not for Winters, not for any of them. She found out about his transfer request from Nixon.

"He put in for a transfer to the Pacific," Nixon had said casually, swirling the last of his whiskey in his glass. But there was something in his voice—something wary.

She felt the ground beneath her shift. "What?"

"Yeah." Nixon exhaled, shaking his head. "Said if he was going he wanted to go ahead and get it out of the way."

She stormed across the compound, barely aware of the men around her as she threw open the door to Winters’ quarters. He was seated at his desk, writing, but he didn’t even flinch as she entered.

"Tell me it’s not true," she said, voice tight.

Winters set his pen down slowly. "What are you talking about?"

"You put in for a transfer." She barely managed to keep the anger from her voice. "To the Pacific."

Winters exhaled through his nose, standing slowly. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because it’s not over yet." His voice was level, too calm, as if that explained everything. "Men are still dying. If I have to go, I want some say in it.”

She shook her head, disbelief crashing over her. "You’ve done enough, Dick. You don’t have to keep proving yourself."

"It’s not about proving anything." His jaw clenched. "It’s about having agency. I can’t just sit here and wait. I need to get it over with."

Her hands curled into fists. "Get what over with? More war? More death? Haven’t you seen enough? Haven’t you lost enough?"

He looked away, but she stepped closer, forcing him to meet her gaze. She whispered, her voice breaking. "You said you wanted peace when this was all over. That you’d find a quiet life.”

Winters swallowed hard. "What if I don’t know how to do that? What if I don’t know how to let this go?”

Her heart cracked. "Then let me show you."

She reached for him, kissing him, pouring everything she couldn’t say into it. He hesitated, then responded, his hands moving up to cup her face, grounding himself. Her fingers went to his collar, working at the buttons of his uniform. But before she could go further, his hands gently closed over hers, stopping her. He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers.

“I don’t feel right,” he confessed. “I can’t share this with you, not like this. If I’m reassigned to the Pacific… I don’t want to hurt you, to leave you, after…”

His words trailed off, but she could see the conflict in his eyes. Her heart swelled, and she shook her head. “You don’t get to make that decision for me. If you’re going to leave… if you’re going to face death again without me, I want to share something real with you.”

The air between them shifted, the vulnerability thick between them. His hands trembled slightly as he kissed her again, this time with all the emotion he had buried so deep. They undressed slowly, each piece of clothing discarded like layers of the past they were leaving behind. He looked at her in awe, almost as if she were something he couldn’t quite believe was real. "You’re beautiful," he murmured, brushing his lips over her shoulder. "So damn beautiful."

She smiled, cupping his face. "So are you."

As they came together, he was slow, careful—holding back, always holding back. She could feel the tension in him, every muscle taut with years of unspent energy. He whispered her name, her breath catching in her throat at the sheer sweetness of the moment. It wasn’t about urgency or rushing—it was the slow, deliberate unfolding of trust.

"Dick," she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair. "Let go." His breath hitched, and she smiled softly. "I’m stronger than I look. You’re not going to break me." Something in him finally cracked, and this time, he did let himself go.

After, they lay tangled together, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her back. She pressed a kiss to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. For the first time in a long time, he felt light. As sleep pulled them under, he held her tighter, as if anchoring himself to something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Part Two | Part Four (Final)

[midnightdraftqueen]

A Steady Hand (PART 2)

Part One | Part Three

Chapter Four: The Bitter Rain of Holland

Holland, September 1944

The rain had been falling for days, turning the fields to mud and the air to a biting chill as they made their way out of France and into Holland. She wrapped her arms around herself as she sat in the back of a transport truck, listening to the distant rumble of artillery.

Luz climbed in beside her, shaking the rain from his jacket. “Hell of a vacation spot, huh?”

She snorted. “Well it’s our own damn fault for coming during the Winter off-season. Someone should have told the US Army to book this little trip in Spring. I hear the tulips are beautiful that time of year.”

Winters appeared at the back of the truck, ducking beneath the tarp. He was soaked through, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You two warm enough?”

Luz held out his hands. “Oh yeah, boss, we’re great. Just having the time of our lives back here.”

Winters ignored him, turning his attention to her. “You should get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You should, too.”

He exhaled through his nose. “I will.”

Luz snickered. “Sure you will.”

Winters shot him a look, but his lips twitched slightly. He glanced at her once more before stepping back out into the rain. She watched him go, feeling something unspoken settle between them.

Chapter Five: Hold the Line

Bastogne, December 1944

The cold was unbearable. There was no escaping it—every breath burned, every movement was stiff and slow. The wounded were piling up, and supplies were running low.

She found Winters standing just outside the makeshift aid station, staring into the distance. His face was unreadable, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion in his stance.

“Come inside,” she urged. “Warm up for a minute.”

He shook his head. “They’re still out there.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “But you can’t keep going like this.”

Winters sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t ask them to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

“You don’t have to.” She hesitated, then reached for his hand, her fingers cold against his. “You would tell them to warm up and take a second to breathe.”

His fingers curled around hers, brief but firm. “Fine, just for a minute.”

Chapter Six: The Battle of Foy

Foy, January 13, 1945

The attack had gone sideways almost immediately. From her position at the aid station, she could hear the heavy thud of artillery shells and the intermittent crack of rifle fire. The men of Easy Company had waited for this moment for weeks, shivering in their foxholes, but now that it had come, it was chaos.

Dike had fucked it up.

She didn’t need to see it to know. The hesitation, the indecision—it was costing lives. The men needed leadership, and they weren’t getting it.

Then, she heard a voice cut through the air. It was distant from her safe distance behind the line, but it was clear and commanding:

“Speirs, get yourself out there and relieve Dike!”

From her vantage point, she caught sight of movement near the tree line. She watched as Speirs ran to meet Dike where he cowered behind a pile of hay. Winters had done what needed to be done. He had made the call, but she knew, without even seeing him, that the weight of all of the chaos sat heavy on his shoulders.

By the time she found him after the battle, he was propped against the wall outside command, hands clenched in his pockets.

“You should be inside,” she murmured, stepping up beside him. “It’s freezing.”

He barely glanced at her. “I should have pushed harder to have Dike relieved earlier. The men, they told me their concerns… ”

She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. “Maybe. But if you had pushed, there’s nothing to prove it would have changed anything. You would have been just as likely to get a reprimand for questioning chain of command. Besides, even if Dike had been pulled, I doubt theywould have chosen Speirs, and he was obviously the right man for the job.”

Winters shook his head. “That’s not an excuse. I knew Dike was incapable.”

She let out a breath, watching it cloud in the air. “ Yes, you knew it was a problem and that it was out of your control. In the end, you still managed to fix it.”

His jaw tensed. “Not soon enough.”

She reached out, resting a hand on his arm. “They’re alive, Dick. They’re alive because of you.”

He exhaled sharply, looking away. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”

“It has to be.”

For a long moment, he was silent, his breathing measured. Then, finally, he nodded. “Come inside,” she gestured.

She smiled faintly as he opened the door, following her in.

PART ONE | PART THREE

[midnightdraftqueen]

A STEADY HAND (PART 1)

Richard Winters x Nurse!Reader | Angst + Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of war, violence, blood, maybe a few curse words

Hi! I’ve really been in a writing mood, and as should be obvious by this second BoB fic, I am also really deep in my World War Grandpa Era. This story is in multiple parts, but they’re all completed and being posted at once.

As always, this story is based on the dramatized 2001 HBO series - Band of Brothers. This story is not meant to disparage or otherwise belittle the real stories of Easy Company and others that sacrificed their lives in World War II and armed conflicts thereafter.

Prologue: A Vow

Normandy, June 6, 1944 – Nightfall

The night was eerily quiet, save for the distant echoes of artillery fire. Winters sat alone, a short distance from where some of his men had gathered after a long, harrowing day. The fighting had been relentless, and the weight of command pressed heavier on his shoulders than his gear ever could.

He ran a hand through his dirt-slicked hair, his thoughts racing. The men who had followed him, trusted him—they had made it through the jump, but the war was just beginning. He had seen death today, more than he ever wished to, and knew he would see it again. Gazing up at the darkened sky, he let out a slow breath. And then, in the quiet between shell bursts, he made a promise:

"God, if you get me through this—through this Day of Days and the ones to follow—I’ll find peace. When it’s all over, I’ll live quietly, away from all this." He forced himself not to flinch as another explosion echoed in the distance. He had never been a man to make reckless vows, but this one? This one, he meant.

Chapter One: First Encounter

Aldbourne, England – 1944; 2 Weeks Before D. Day

She first met Richard Winters in the chaos of Aldbourne. The air buzzed with anticipation, filled with the scent of damp dirt and gun oil. She had been assigned as a field nurse to the 506th PIR, a role that felt both too small and too consuming all at once. Her duty was clear—mend the wounded, keep them moving, and stay out of the way of the men fighting. She had expected hardship, the ups and downs of dealing with men at war, but she hadn’t expected him.

Winters was everything the rumors suggested. Steady, intelligent, and composed, with a quiet authority that made men stand taller in his presence. He wasn’t one for unnecessary words, but when he spoke, people listened. Including her.

It had started simply enough. She had walked into the command tent with a supply report, only to find herself caught in Winters’ unwavering gaze. He had nodded, taken the paper from her hand, and murmured a polite, “Thank you.” That should have been the end of it. But Nixon had other ideas.

“Winters, you didn’t tell me the Army was finally sending us someone who can actually stitch us back together after a night of drinking.” Lewis Nixon quipped, leaning against the nearest table, whiskey already in hand. He shot her a grin, the kind that promised trouble. “Well, not you, obviously,” he spoke at Dick. “You’d rather drink a glass of milk and read a field manual—but for the rest of us degenerates, this is a much-needed addition,” he gestured in her direction.

She arched a brow at Winters. “Is he always like this?”

Winters exhaled sharply, the ghost of a chuckle passing his lips. Nixon looked delighted.

And so it began.

Chapter Two: A Reunion in Normandy

Normandy, June 1944

She arrived days after the initial assault, landing with a group of medics meant to assist in stabilizing the wounded before they were moved to field hospitals. The beaches still carried the scars of battle, but Easy Company had already pushed inland.

Reuniting with Winters and the boys wasn’t immediate. Reports of Easy’s movements were scattered. Dick was always at the front, always leading. When she finally saw him again near Carentan, he looked different. His uniform was dirtied and stiff with blood—none of it his own, she noted. But his presence was still the same, an unshakable, steady force in the storm.

“You made it,” he said simply.

“Eventually.” She glanced at the makeshift aid station. “Looks like I missed the welcoming committee.”

Nixon smirked. “Yeah, you’re a little late for the fireworks. Mortars, machine guns— real nice way to kick off a party.”

Winters shook his head at his friend’s remark before turning his attention back to her. “You doing alright?”

She nodded. “You?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. It was a small moment, but in a war that moved too fast, where time for reflection was scarce, it was enough.

Chapter Three: The Road to Carentan

Normandy, June 1944

The fields of Normandy were thick with hedgerows, each one a death trap. The wounded arrived in waves—shrapnel wounds, bullet holes, burns. She had seen it all before, but never this relentless, never this unending. The air smelled of blood, damp earth, and the acrid tang of gunpowder.

Winters came in just before nightfall, his uniform dark with sweat and dirt, his eyes sharp as ever despite the exhaustion that lined his face. He barely had time to sit before she thrust a canteen into his hands. “Drink.”

He took it without argument. She knelt beside him, pressing a fresh bandage against a gash just below his elbow. He flinched but said nothing.

“You need to be more careful,” she murmured.

Winters let out a tired breath. “Not always an option.”

She looked at him, taking in the quiet determination in his eyes, the burden he carried. “Then let someone look after you for once.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “That what you’re here for?”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t run yourself into the ground.” She secured the bandage, brushing dirt from his sleeve. “You know you can’t take care of them if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Winters met her gaze, something unreadable in his expression. For a moment, she thought he might say something, something real. Instead, he simply nodded. “I’ll try.”

That was the closest thing to a concession she would get.

Part Two

[midnightdraftqueen]

Close to the Fire

Ronald Speirs x Nurse!Reader | Fluff + Angst

Warnings: light swearing, mentions of war, period-typical violence, and concentration camps. Suggestive scene, but no smut.

OK BESTIES, here goes nothing! This is my first time actually publishing a fanfic. Constructive criticism is welcome, just be kind about it. I cry easily lol.

Had to start of with one of my fave fandoms and characters… Ronald Speirs from BoB.*

*This story is based solely on the portrayal of the men in the 2001 HBO series, Band of Brothers. It is in no way meant to disparage the actual men of Easy Company or the other countless men and women who risked their lives in World War 2 and armed conflicts since then.

The ground was slick with mud and blood, the air thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder. You knew you had gone too far—crossed the invisible line between safety and chaos—but when you heard the wounded cries from the treeline, hesitation hadn’t been an option.

Now, lying in the dirt with pain radiating from your leg, you regretted nothing.

You blinked against the haze of pain, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The sounds of battle had moved away, but not far enough. If you didn’t get out of here soon, someone would find you, and there was no guarantee it would be a friendly face.

A shadow fell over you, and for a moment, you thought you were done for. Then, sharp eyes met yours—Captain Ronald Speirs, his expression set in stone, his gun slung over his shoulder.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was low, edged with something that might have been anger—or fear.

You tried to push yourself up, but your body refused to cooperate. “Someone… needed help.”

Speirs knelt beside you, assessing the wound with practiced efficiency. A bullet had grazed your thigh, tearing through fabric and flesh. It wasn’t fatal, but the blood loss and shock were taking their toll.

“Yeah? And now someone needs to help you.” He pulled a bandage from his kit, his hands surprisingly gentle as he pressed it against the wound. “Damn foolish thing to do.”

You swallowed hard, wincing. “You’d have done the same.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he tore a strip from his own undershirt to reinforce the bandage. The rough fabric smelled like gunpowder and sweat, but it was warm, grounding.

“Think you can walk?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“I don’t—” You didn’t get the chance to answer before he was shifting, slipping an arm under your shoulders. In one swift motion, he lifted you against him, his grip firm but careful.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” His tone left no room for argument.

You rested your head against his shoulder for a moment, exhaustion winning out. “You’re softer than they say, Captain.”

A huff of amusement, barely there. “Don’t tell anyone.”

As he carried you back toward safety, every step measured and careful, the adrenaline finally wore off, and the pain set in. You bit your lip to keep from whimpering, but Speirs must have noticed because his hold on you tightened slightly.

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice uncharacteristically reassuring.

The world tilted as he eased you behind the nearest cover. He set you down against the base of a tree, kneeling in front of you. His hands moved quickly, checking the wound and fixing the bandage. For a man known for his brutal efficiency in battle, he was remarkably gentle now.

“You should have waited for help,” he muttered.

“I couldn’t,” you admitted, swallowing against the dizziness. “I didn’t think. I just acted.”

Speirs sighed, his expression unreadable. He pulled his canteen from his belt and pressed it into your hands. “Drink.”

You obeyed, the water cool as it calmed your dry throat. He watched you, as if making sure you wouldn’t pass out, before finally speaking again. “As stupid as it was, that was pretty brave for a nurse.”

Your lips quirked in a small smile. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

For a moment, the war seemed distant. The gunfire, the shouting, the chaos—it all faded into the background. All that remained was Speirs, his unwavering gaze locked on yours.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

Foy came and went in a blur. You heard the story secondhand, from murmuring soldiers and adrenaline-fueled gossip.

“Ran straight through German fire like it was a goddamn Sunday stroll.”

“I thought he was dead for sure, but then he ran back.”

“What kind of man does that?”

The answer, of course, was Ronald Speirs.

When you finally saw him again, he was unfazed, as if he hadn’t just made history with his reckless courage. But you were furious.

You found him, standing near the remnants of a crumbling wall, speaking briefly with a soldier before turning to light a cigarette. He barely acknowledged you as you approached.

“Are you out of your mind?” The words burst from your lips, anger fueled by fear still coursing through your veins.

He exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette before giving you a sideways glance, brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

Your frustration mounted. “You ran through a field of fire. Straight into German machine guns! For God’s sake, do you even realize how close you came to—” You cut yourself off, because saying it out loud made it too real.

Speirs still looked puzzled, like he wasn’t sure what part of this was upsetting you so much. “It worked,” he said simply.

That was it. That was his entire justification.

You threw your hands up. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to lecture me about being reckless, about taking risks, and then turn around and pull something like this a few days later!”

His expression darkened, something raw flashing behind his eyes. “You put yourself in danger because you wanted to help. I put myself in danger because it was the only way to get the job done. I knew what I was getting into when I joined up.”

Speirs exhaled slowly, the smoke from his cigarette curling between you. His expression remained composed, but something flickered in his eyes—something just beneath the surface, like a battle he wasn’t sure he wanted to fight. You continued to meet his gaze in the tense silence.

“I don’t take unnecessary risks,” he finally said.

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Unnecessary? You ran through a battlefield, Ron.”

“It had to be done.”

“And if it didn’t work? If you were shot down in the middle of that field?” Your voice wavered, betraying you. “What then?”

More silence was the only answer.

You swallowed hard, pushing past the lump forming in your throat. “I came here knowing I’d see things I’d never be able to forget. I knew the horror, the bloodshed, the death—it’s why I’m here. To care for men like you. But it doesn’t mean I have to stand by and watch you take stupid risks and throw yourself away like your life doesn’t matter.”

Speirs shifted slightly, gaze never leaving yours. “I told you. I’m a soldier. I signed up to fight.”

“I signed up too,” you countered, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You don’t get to act like your choice is more justified than mine. That somehow you not caring about your life makes you more noble. I didn’t come here to watch from a distance. I came here to stand in the middle of it all. I came here for you — every single one of you.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension, thick and suffocating, crackled like a live wire between you.

Then, just when you thought he might retreat behind that iron-clad mask again, he sighed—a quiet, weary sound, as if something inside him was finally cracking.

His eyes softened, just enough for you to see it. “I care,” he repeated, the words rough, almost reluctant.

Your heart pounded at the admission, at the weight behind them.

But before you could say anything else, before you could make sense of what it all meant, he straightened, the shift almost imperceptible. The moment—this moment—was over.

“We should get back,” he said simply, his voice composed again.

You knew better than to push. But as he turned, you saw the way his fingers curled into a fist, the way his shoulders were just a little too tense.

And you knew—this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

——————————- TIME SKIP ——————————

The smell reached you before anything else. It was thick, rancid, almost suffocating, and it coiled in your lungs like poison. The men of Easy Company had smelled death before—on the battlefield, in the foxholes, in the ruins of war-torn towns. But this was different.

This was something deeper. Something rotting.

You followed the line of men as they advanced cautiously through the trees, rifles lowered, steps careful. No one spoke. The only sound was the distant creak of wind against rusted metal and the occasional sharp caw of crows overhead.

Then you saw it.

The barbed wire fence, twisted and rusted, stretching in jagged lines across the landscape. Beyond it, skeletal figures moved sluggishly, wrapped in tattered rags, their hollow eyes darting toward you with something between fear and disbelief.

A camp.

Your stomach turned violently, a cold shudder crawling up your spine.

The closer you got, the worse it became. Piles of bodies stacked like discarded trash. Wooden barracks that smelled of disease, filth, and despair. And the prisoners—if they could still be called that—stared at you with faces so sunken, so gaunt, that they barely looked human.

You had spent the entire war treating wounds, doing everything in your power to put men back together after battle had torn them apart. But this—this wasn’t battle. This was cruelty.

The men of Easy stood frozen, silent in the face of what they were witnessing.

Winters was the first to move, stepping forward with careful but purposeful steps. He reached the fence, eyes scanning the scene, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle tick.

Leibgott was the first to break the silence. “What the fuck is this?” His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking.

A prisoner—the closest one to the fence—staggered forward, barely able to hold himself up. “Amerikaner?” His voice was barely a whisper, raw and weak.

Winters nodded once, his voice steady. “Yes.”

And then the man fell to his knees, his skeletal fingers gripping the dirt, his shoulders shaking as a broken sob wracked his frail body.

That was all it took. The others moved. Prisoners stumbled toward the fence, some falling before they could even reach it, their bodies too weak to sustain the effort. The sight of them—so thin, so hollowed out by starvation and suffering—made your throat tighten painfully.

A hand touched your arm, and you turned to find Winters watching you. “Go,” he said softly. “Help them.”

You nodded, already moving.

You had seen wounded men before. You had seen limbs mangled by gunfire, men drowning in their own blood, bodies broken beyond repair. But you had never seen this.

It wasn’t just physical. The damage here ran deeper.

You knelt beside a prisoner—an older man, his ribs so pronounced beneath his thin skin that he hardly looked real. His lips were cracked, his fingers trembling as he clutched the corner of his tattered uniform. His breath came in shallow gasps.

“Water,” he rasped.

You uncapped your canteen and held it to his lips, tilting it gently. He drank in weak, desperate gulps, some of it spilling down his chin. You wiped it away with your sleeve, ignoring the sting in your own eyes.

“Easy,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Nearby, the men worked quickly. Spears had been set down, rations passed through the barbed wire, blankets stripped from packs and draped over shivering shoulders. But there were too many.

You turned, scanning the area for Winters. He stood near the fence, speaking with a civilian—one of the local townspeople, a man who looked like he had been dragged here against his will.

“Major,” you called, pushing yourself up and striding toward him.

Winters turned to face you, the strain evident in his expression. “What is it?”

“We need a plan,” you said, your voice tight. “Some of these people can’t even stand. They need food, medical attention—”

“We’re doing what we can,” Winters said, his tone even.

“It’s not enough,” you pressed. “We don’t have the supplies for this.”

Winters nodded, his gaze shifting back to the prisoners. His jaw clenched. “We’ll call in support. Get the word out to command.”

You hesitated. “And the Germans?”

Winters’ expression hardened.

You had both seen the townspeople lingering near the camp, some watching in horrified silence, others looking away entirely. They knew. Maybe they hadn’t been the ones holding the whips, maybe they hadn’t pulled the triggers, but they had known.

“They’re already being rounded up,” Winters said, his voice cold.

A flicker of something dark and furious burned in your chest, but you pushed it down. There was too much to do.

You turned back to the prisoners.

No time to think about justice. Not yet.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

Later that night, you tried to keep busy. You had moved from one weakened body to another, doing what you could, but it was never enough. You could still hear their cries, still see the haunted eyes of those who had survived.

Now, standing outside the makeshift HQ, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your entire body thrummed with something you couldn’t name.

Rage.

Despair.

Hate.

It boiled inside you, a violent, sickening thing that made you want to scream, to cry, to throw up, to kill the men who did this with your bare hands just to feel something other than helplessness.

Footsteps approached, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was Speirs.

He stopped beside you, silent for a long moment.

Then—“You need to breathe.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, your throat tight. “Don’t tell me to breathe.”

Speirs didn’t flinch. “You want to hit something?”

“Yes,” you admitted through gritted teeth.

“Then hit me.”

You turned to face him, and for a moment, you actually considered it. But there was no mockery in his expression, no amusement. Just quiet understanding.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I need something good.”

Speirs watched you, his expression unreadable. Then, before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you surged forward, grabbing the front of his jacket and pulling him to you.

You kissed him. Hard.

For a moment, he let you. Let you pour every ounce of rage and frustration and need into the kiss. Then, with a quiet groan, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Not like this.” His voice was rough, strained. “Not when you’re hurting.”

Your breathing was uneven. “Ron—”

His hands found your face, his touch uncharacteristically soft. “When it happens, I want it to be because we’re choosing each other. Not because of the war. Not because of anger.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“Come here.” He pulled you into his arms.

You buried your face against his chest, his warmth steady, solid.

“Stay?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said before following you inside.

And as you drifted off, his arms still around you, Speirs stayed awake.

Watching.

Thinking.

Trying to understand what the hell he was supposed to do with this thing growing between you.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

The official word came down: Hold positions. Hitler was dead. The Nazis surrendered. The war in Europe was over.

Some of the men cheered, others just stood in stunned silence. The weight of years of fighting, of constant survival, finally settled onto their shoulders, leaving them exhausted, relieved, and restless all at once.

You barely had time to process it yourself before Easy Company made their way up the winding roads to Kehlsteinhaus—Hitler’s prized Eagle’s Nest.

The view was breathtaking, mountains stretching endlessly beyond the horizon. But it wasn’t the luxury or the stolen wealth that stuck with you. It was the absurdity of it.

All this opulence, all this grandeur, and yet it had been built by men who let their fellow humans starve in camps not far from here.

You tried not to dwell on it. Tried to enjoy the moment with the people around you.

But Speirs? He disappeared almost immediately.

“Where the hell did Speirs go?” you muttered, arms crossed as you stood with Lipton and a few of the other nurses.

Lipton smirked knowingly. “Scavenging.”

You huffed. “Of course.”

It was well known that Speirs had some seriously sticky fingers. From pieces of jewelry to entire silverware sets. The man had plundered his way through half of Europe in his spare time.

“He actually asked us for some help,” Lip said, rubbing the back of his neck, his amusement evident.

You blinked. “He what?”

Before Lipton could answer, one of the nurses—Hannah—giggled beside you. “He came back with a dress. An actual dress.”

You stared at her. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Lip confirmed, suppressing a grin. “Found it in one of the houses. Brought it back and asked if we could, uh… ‘make it work.’”

A slow, stunned smile crept onto your lips. “Ronald Speirs found a dress for me?”

Hannah nodded. “It’s actually beautiful. Little wrinkled, but it’ll do. And he asked us to get you ready tonight.”

Your stomach flipped, warmth creeping into your chest.

Speirs wasn’t the kind of man who said things outright. He didn’t do grand confessions or flowery words. But this? This was more than enough.

You turned to Lipton. “And what’s your role in all this?”

He chuckled. “Helping him set up a dinner. Well, his version of a dinner.”

“Which means?”

Lip gave you a knowing look. “You’ll see.”

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

The sun was beginning to set when Hannah and the others finished their work.

You stared at yourself in the broken mirror of the commandeered bedroom, running your hands down the fabric of the deep blue dress. It wasn’t extravagant, but it fit well enough, and after years of nothing but military fatigues, it felt strange—good, but strange.

Your hair was pinned back as best as it could be, and when you stepped outside, the fresh mountain air sent a pleasant chill across your skin.

Speirs was waiting just outside one of the empty halls, hands in his pockets, his usual composed expression in place. But when he looked at you, you swore you saw something shift—something unreadable but warm.

“Didn’t think you’d actually wear it,” he said, tilting his head slightly.

You smirked. “You went through the trouble of looting it. Figured I should.”

He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over you. “Looks good on you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you masked it with a teasing grin. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation.

The “dinner” was set up on a balcony overlooking the valley. A bottle of wine—also pilfered—sat on a small table along with a few plates of whatever food Lipton had managed to scrounge up from the kitchens.

It was simple. No candles, no extravagant decorations. But it was real.

Speirs pulled out a chair for you before sitting across from you, pouring the wine without a word.

You swirled the glass, watching him as he leaned back slightly, eyes on the horizon. “So,” you mused, “was this your idea, or did Lipton bully you into it?”

Speirs smirked faintly. “I don’t think Lip has ever bullied anyone. He did help me put together a plan.”

Your chest ached at the thought of him putting effort into this. “Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a sip of wine, the soft breeze ruffling his hair. Then, finally—“Because you deserved something good.”

The lump in your throat nearly stole your words.

You reached across the table, fingers brushing against his. “So do you.”

He didn’t pull away.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

The room was dimly lit when you reached it later that night.

You had barely closed the door when Speirs caught your wrist, tugging you gently against him. His hands found your waist, steady but certain, his forehead resting against yours.

You inhaled sharply. “Ron—”

“I want this,” he murmured, voice low. “I need you to know that.”

Your fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “Then don’t stop me this time.”

He didn’t.

His lips crashed into yours, the composure he always wore finally breaking. His hands were everywhere—trailing down your back, pressing you flush against him as he walked you back toward the bed.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate.

For once, neither of you were caught in the middle of a war.

For once, you were just two people, rediscovering what it meant to be alive.

Every touch, every kiss, was unspoken confirmation—I’m here. I want this.

When he finally laid you down, hovering above you with a rare softness in his eyes, he hesitated. “Are you sure?”

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down. “Ron, I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And so he kissed you again—deeply, reverently.

This was no battlefield, no reckless moment of desperation.

This was something real.

Speirs remained awake long after you had drifted off, your body curled against his.

He traced idle patterns against your bare shoulder, his mind restless.

He had spent years convincing himself that attachments were dangerous, that caring too much would only lead to loss.

But here you were.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he didn’t feel the need to run.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

The waiting was the worst part. The war was over in Europe, but still raging elsewhere.

Days passed with no word on whether Easy Company would be sent to the Pacific. Some of the men started relaxing, letting the weight of the war finally ease off their shoulders. Others remained on edge, unwilling to believe the fight was over.

Talbert, lucky bastard, won the lottery and was getting sent home.

You found him sitting on a crate outside one of the barracks, scrawling another letter to the girl he never stopped writing to. Smirking, you leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “She’s gonna be sick of hearing from you by the time you get back.”

Talbert grinned, unfazed. “Not a chance.”

You sat beside him, nudging his boot with yours. “Tell me the truth, Talbert. You gonna marry this girl?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “I’d propose the second I stepped off the train if I thought it wouldn’t scare her half to death.”

You nudged him again, teasing. “Oh, I think she’s stuck with you at this point. No way she wrote back this many times without knowing what she was getting into.”

Talbert grinned. “Yeah… yeah, maybe.”

You smiled, but deep down, your stomach twisted. You were happy for him—you really were—but as you watched him tuck away the letter, reality crept in.

What if Easy was reassigned? What if the war wasn’t really over?

And worse—what if they went to the Pacific, and you didn’t?

The thought nearly stole your breath.

Talbert must’ve caught something in your expression because his grin faded slightly. “You okay?”

You forced a smirk. “Yeah, just thinking about home.”

He let it go, but you knew he didn’t buy it.

That night, you found Speirs sitting outside one of the barracks, smoking, his Thompson resting against the wooden steps. The sight of him—so steady, so composed—made something in you snap.

You sat beside him, exhaling sharply. “I’m scared.”

He didn’t look at you right away, just flicked his cigarette into the dirt. “Of what?”

You swallowed, staring at the dark horizon. “Of getting left behind. Of you all going to the Pacific without me.”

Speirs was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally—“You think I’d let that happen?”

You turned to him, brows knitting together. “Ron, it’s not exactly up to you.”

“No,” he admitted. Then, after a pause, “But this is.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small gold ring, the metal glinting faintly under the dim light.

Your breath hitched.

It wasn’t extravagant—simple, a little worn—but it was undoubtedly an engagement ring.

And, knowing Speirs, it was also undoubtedly looted.

Your heart pounded. “Ron—”

“Whether I have to jump into Japan or not,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering, “I know one thing for certain—I’m not letting you leave Europe without my last name.”

A laugh—breathless, disbelieving—escaped you. “You stole an engagement ring?”

He smirked. “You expected anything else?”

You stared at him, your chest aching in the best possible way.

Then, slowly, you reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his. “You better mean this, Speirs.”

His grip tightened slightly. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

That was all you needed.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

Two days later, the entire company gathered in the open field just outside the barracks. The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in a soft golden light.

An army chaplain stood at the front, flipping through his worn Bible, waiting patiently. Winters stood beside you, adjusting his uniform, looking strangely at ease in his role.

And then there was Speirs.

He stood tall in his formal uniform, his polished boots planted firmly in the grass, looking every bit the legend he had become. Beside him, Lipton stood as his best man, hands clasped behind his back, a proud but amused smile on his face.

You, on the other hand, were adjusting the fabric of your dress—another ‘find’ from one of the local homes —fitted as best as you could manage with the help of your fellow nurses. It wasn’t perfect, but it was clean, and for the first time in a long time, you felt soft again.

Winters cleared his throat beside you. “Ready?”

You nodded, taking his offered arm. “You’re sure about this, Major? I mean I know I don’t exactly have family here to walk me down the aisle, but I could always walk alo…,” he didn’t give you the chance to finish.

Winters gave you a rare, soft smile. “Family isn’t just blood. It’s my honor to do this.”

Your throat tightened. You squeezed his arm gently. “Thank you.”

Then, the two of you walked forward.

Speirs’ gaze locked onto you immediately, and for the first time in your entire relationship—if you could call it that—you swore you saw something like awe in his eyes.

When you reached him, Winters gave you a small nod before stepping aside.

Speirs eyed your dress, his smirk barely hidden. “Where’d you get that?”

You smirked back. “You’re not the only one with scavenging skills, Captain.”

Lipton huffed a quiet laugh beside him.

Speirs chuckled, shaking his head slightly. Then, his expression softened. “You look beautiful.”

Your heart flipped, warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

His lips twitched. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The chaplain cleared his throat, and the ceremony began.

It was quick, simple, but perfect. When Speirs slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were steady, his grip sure.

Then, as soon as the chaplain pronounced you husband and wife, Speirs didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you to him and kissed you, slow and deep, his hands curling around your waist like he wasn’t letting go.

Applause and cheers erupted from the men, Lipton giving an approving nod while Luz whooped loud enough for half the barracks to hear.

But none of that mattered.

Because as you pulled back, catching your breath, Speirs met your gaze, and in that moment, you knew

No matter what came next, no matter where they were sent—

You were his.

And he was yours.

——————————- 🪖🪖🪖———————————

EPILOGUE

Colonel Sink signed off on the marriage paperwork the next morning, making everything official in the event Speirs and the boys were reassigned.

But, as fate would have it, the war ended before that could happen.

Easy Company wasn’t sent to the Pacific.

They went home. Together.

And Ronald Speirs, the man everyone swore was made of steel, returned with his wife.