#ron spiers fic

[thoughts-of-caly]

@eightysix-baby i was your hbowar secret santa!! i had a really fun time making your gift as i’d never done an x reader before. i hope you enjoy this spiers x reader fic (you can also find it on ao3 here)! merry christmas!!

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking for. Hours, certainly. You know that you only lasted half an hour before frostbite set in, turning the tips of your fingers and ears the deep icy purple of a bruise. You can still feel that your feet are cold inside your boots, so that must be good.

When you started walking, you could see your breath in plumes in front of you. Now, your breath is dangerously weak, and your eyes are too glazed over to see much of anything.

Your right cheek and arm, as well as that side of your neck, have faded from a roaring, demanding pain to a dull stinging. That might be a good sign, except it could mean more frostbite. What does a combination of second-degree burns and frostbite do to a person’s skin?

You might know the answer to that one if you had been able to afford medical school, but it takes all your effort just to put one foot in front of the other.

When you started walking, you could smell the smoke from the Division Clearing Station. Now, you can only feel the cold.

As a child, you used to joke—bundled up in a scarf, hat, and mittens—that Boston winters were so cold it hurt to breathe.

Bastogne with none of the above is far worse.

When you started walking, you could still hear the screams—real or imagined, you weren’t sure. Now, all you hear is the winter wind trying its best to kill you.

But you will not be killed. Not while the war is still going on. Those deaths have to mean something. Your father, your brothers, and most recently your friends—their deaths will keep fueling you, just like they have for the past three years.

You will keep walking until you are safe behind friendly lines.

Wait. What is that sound?

Surely it can’t be, you think. But it is.

Shells.

Shells whistling through the air, crashing through the trees, detonating with enough force to kill countless men.

And screams—screams, thank God, in English.

“Medic! Help, over here! Medic!”

You stagger forward a few steps, stupidly ignoring the danger, and try to call out. But your throat is dry, your lips are cracked, and no words come.

You can see shadowy figures now, running through the trees. You can only pray that one of them sees you too.

“Hey! Over there, take cover!”

But you can’t move anymore. It seems you are rooted to the spot like one of the trees, about to come crashing down.

The voice, somehow familiar, sounds again. “Get down, soldier!” A figure appears out of the wind-driven snow, grabbing you harshly and dragging you to the ground. A foxhole nearby is waiting, so close you could have fallen in it if you could have moved, as a shell hits inches from where you were standing.

As you fall, you hear a strangled gasp of pain escape your lips—the snow’s rough contact with your burns has torn off whatever scabs you had. When you sit up slowly, blood drips anew down your uniform, sluggishly moving, half-frozen, much like you.

“What the hell were you thinking, Sergeant?” The man who saved your life rubs a hand over his face in exasperation, and you see who he is.

No. Oh, no. Anyone but him. Why couldn’t I have taken a wrong turn somewhere?

You can’t speak for a few more moments, and he hands over his canteen, scowling. The ice inside clunks half-heartedly as you unscrew it, your badly burned right hand trembling.

You grip the canteen tightly anyhow. You will not act like some sniveling idiot. Not in front of Ronnie Spiers.

As soon as you’re done drinking, he takes a look at your face. “Oh, Jesus—” and at the rest of you— “What are you doing here?”

It hurts to open your mouth, but you bite back the searing wave of pain. “Krauts got the 326th. Surely you know that,” you can’t resist adding.

The words bring back the event, scalded into your memory and your flesh. They’d burned the trucks, the tents, everything, and you were wedged between an overturned table and a flaming truck for four minutes and seventeen seconds. You’d counted each one of them, feeling the heat ruin you, before something collapsed and you were free.

“I ran,” you say, remembering the blanket you’d stolen from a corpse and the fear that the Krauts would see you, almost paralyzing.

You don’t look at Spiers. Any pity he feels can’t be real—he didn’t feel any ten years ago when your family was starving and his had just moved into a suburban house with a manicured lawn.

The shellacking outside gradually ceases, and Spiers peers out of the foxhole. “All clear!” he bellows, and men are running again, calling for a medic, screaming, bleeding, dying.

“Come on—” He stops before saying your name. “Come on, Sergeant. We should get you to a medic.”

I am a medic, you idiot, is the first thought that crosses your mind, but a fat lot of good your hands will do anyone now.

You sit in the foxhole, trying to rise, and realize with a shock that your feet have gone entirely numb. Your hands, too—it feels like there’s nothing there, not even pins and needles.

“Come on,” Spiers snaps. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”

You can’t even turn your neck to look at him when you whisper, “I can’t move.”

You feel yourself being pulled upright in the foxhole, boots leaking blood, and close your eyes, too exhausted to tell him not to touch you.

“Medic! Medic!” He calls until his throat is raw—surely because today you are just another paratrooper whose life has been destroyed by the Nazis—but no one comes. “Medic!”

He swears violently, furiously, and this is the Ronnie you remember. There’s the snick of a knife blade, and your tattered right sleeve is slit from shoulder to wrist. You don’t sense the fresh cold; the lack of feeling is terrifying.

You hear sounds of clicking and rustling, and then he says, “This’ll hurt like a bitch,” and something touches your arm softly.

You inhale sharply and grit your teeth to try and escape the pain that’s radiating up and down your arm now. Spiers seems to be doing his best to clean the wound, but he was right. It does hurt like a bitch. But at least you can feel it.

Then he arrives at your neck, and it’s all you can do to keep from howling like a rabid animal. You taste blood in your mouth, but refuse to scream. You’ll sit ramrod straight and bite your tongue off if you have to.

“Stop cr—” he begins, then cuts himself off with a curse.

What kind of person tells an injured woman to stop crying? Ronnie Spiers, that’s who.

But he stopped. He didn’t really tell me, after all.

New blood trickles down your face, warm and alive, mixing with your tears.

Spiers keeps working, muttering to himself. When he stops, your right side is still throbbing. “I don’t have enough bandages for all this,” he grumbles.

“In my pack,” you hiss through gritted teeth. “Left side.” You can only hope they aren’t too badly burned or frozen rock-hard.

You feel his hands struggling to unfasten the pack, but he seems to have gotten the bandages.

You try to open your eyes again, try to tell him what he needs to do, but only hear your breathing becoming slower and shallower.

You are not going to die here. Not after he’s put in all this effort. This attempt at nursing, at least, you can understand about him. And you wouldn’t want your own work to be for nothing.

You try your best to move your hand, even to curl your fingers into a fist in some small act of defiance.

“Stay with me, Sergeant,” Spiers urges, but it’s too easy to slip away. “Come on. Medic!”

As you collapse into nothingness, furious at yourself, you hear a word he hasn’t said in years.

Your first name.

When you feel yourself return to consciousness, the world is considerably warmer. Darker, too; and there’s a lantern lit on the opposite side of the foxhole. If it’s even the same foxhole. It’s really a wonder Spiers didn’t rush you to the hospital.

It takes considerable effort to keep your eyes open, so you close them again and try to take a few deep breaths. You have no idea how long it’s been.

You’re lying on the ground now; the lantern’s light is near your eye level. There’s some kind of blanket covering you—probably the one you took when you fled the wreckage of the 326th.

The next thing you’re aware of is how hungry you are. It’s a feeling with which you’re very familiar, but it never gets less painful.

You try to move, realize someone’s arm is slung across your body, and sit up immediately, barely holding in a small shriek. Your head is spinning now from the sudden movement; you touch your right cheek and feel the bandages there. They’ve been changed recently, and you can feel the wounds scabbing over underneath.

Next to you, Spiers is lying on the bottom of the foxhole.

You can see now that you were actually underneath two blankets, yours and another one.

He stirs, opens his eyes, and says in surprise, “You’re awake.” Is it your imagination, or is there a hint of relief, happiness even, in his voice?

Ridiculous. He’s proved time and again that he couldn’t care less about you.

But then why would he go to all this trouble?

You push the thought to the far back of your mind and say, your voice rusty, “How long has it been?”

“Four days.” This time, his voice does betray him. He had the audacity to be worried about you. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

You don’t say anything, trying to muster up the humility to tell him thank you. It doesn’t seem to be appearing anytime soon.

“You talk in your sleep,” Spiers says, sitting up.

“No, I don’t,” you immediately reply, because you know for a fact that this is false, then realize. “I was delirious? For four days?”

He won’t even meet your eyes in the dim light. “Even if you were delirious, you said some crazy shit.”

A bolt of panic shoots through you at the words. But why should you care if he thinks you hate him? You do hate him.

Don’t you?

“You hate me,” Spiers says. It’s clear he’s had plenty of time to mull this over. “I just saved your life, and you hate me.”

You snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. I hate you for other reasons.”

“I know,” he snaps. “You hold a ten-year grudge.”

You tamp down the feeling of guilt spreading in your chest as you say, “I’m excellent at holding grudges. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be part of this war.”

“You can’t blame me for your brothers��� deaths,” he continues, his mask of tiredness shattering under your resentment. “You can’t blame me for every single thing that’s happened to you since—”

“—Since you looked me in the eyes as my parents starved to death? Since you moved to a nicer house and forgot I wasn’t living anywhere anymore? Since you saw me on the street and asked why I wasn’t in school, when you knew, you knew, exactly what my family was going through and that you were turning a blind eye?” Your voice catches and breaks, hot rage going through your veins.

“You didn’t even deign to give me the price of a newspaper. I saw you walk right by. And you say it’s not fair for me to blame you? If it wasn’t for the contempt people like you showed people like me when the Depression hit—when we lost everything and you didn’t—my brothers would never have joined up. They had marketable skills, dammit. They could’ve made themselves something. They just wanted to eat.”

He sits silently, looking at you for a long time. You see what looks like utter fury seething in his eyes.

Ten years of anger make the air brittle around you. You’re quiet, afraid it will snap, as you whisper, “Well, say something.”

Spiers says nothing, continuing to stare at you darkly.

“Go ahead, dammit. Tell me that I have no right to be angry, that I’m arrogant and spiteful and selfish and cruel. I know you want to say it.”

He keeps looking at you, and you have to turn away, tears burning your eyes. They’re tears of anger, you tell yourself. Because you hate him.

Do you?

You hate something. You have to. Or else what have you been angry at all these years?

“Say something,” you hiss at him. Because you certainly can’t.

And then you barely have time to inhale a gasp as he crosses the space between you and him and kisses you.

You pull away almost instantly, leftover rage still sparking, and just barely keep yourself from slapping him across the face. “You son of a bitch!”

Your words echo in your own head, but Spiers is yet again infuriatingly silent.

The tears won’t be stopped now, and it kills you to realize they aren’t tears of anger.

It isn’t long before you’re sobbing, still desperately trying to keep your bandages clean, and then Spiers does move.

You end up with him beside you, you’re not sure how, and when he reaches out to hold you, you don’t want to protest.

You find some reassuring familiarity in the beat of his heart as your breathing slows to match it.

And, although you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud, when your eyes meet again you can see that Spiers knows what you’re thinking.

I’m sorry.

[noneedtoamputate]

I was getting ready in my bathroom this morning. "I bet Ron Spiers is a beer-in-the-shower kinda guy," I thought.

I don't exactly know if these kinds of thoughts are normal, but I also know that I might have to write a fic featuring Ron having a beer in the shower.

[bleedingcoffee42]

Spiersmore is gonna be my top hottest ship cuz goodamm!these lads r driving me insane.More "unborthered smirk",his tall tanned stature..that mf is sexy af nd he knows it while spiers uughhhhs bro's eyelashes*chef's kisses* nd his pretty pretty face...more can get him all hot,bothered nd irritated aahhhhh.i need fics guys !!!!!plzzz atleast share more headcanon that will give me some relife too

So I've been thinking about the overlap of Malarkey and More. We see them the first time when Speirs walks through and More gives him backtalk about moving out and Malarkey is quick to say 'Do you know who that crazy MF is?' and we go through a D Day reeneactment.

Now this scene can be taken several ways:

A) Ask why the Dog company Lieutenant is passing through this batch of Easy soldiers and assume it's to check on someone. Someone being More. More who gives him shit for a look over the shoulder. In public. There is already something going on between these two. And the interaction shows us how More is, forward and with a little bit of bite, and liking that stern look he gets.

or

B) This is when More decides SpeirMore is his goal. He gives Speirs shit for not being their Lieutenant and trying to order them around and gets that look that sends tingles to all the right places. The lore only enhances this. While the boys say 'Fuck that guy', More is thinking 'I'm going to fuck that guy'.

And on Malarkey who refers to More as "More was a rugged John Wayne type, the son of a saloonkeeper in Casper, Wyoming." and "This time, our resident scrounger, Alton More." More stole that motorcycle they were riding around on from Utah beach, got it on an LST, and then made fake gas tickets to fuel it before riding it around Aldbourne. More. So while on these adventures I can see where we can go from Markley being "I see the devil himself in Speirs" to when they take the Eagles Nest and he's popping champagne to spook the Devil who just walked into a table. And that could be because his friend, who also like steal shit, is banging the guy.

And the competing looters being a couple? Yeah, I go for that.

The photo album is also a pivotal piece. It's used to spark an argument that More clearly enjoys. This comes after he's the only one who watches Speirs pistol whip Craver. More sees something even better about Sparky and goes for it. Needs something to really piss him off, so this is where he just steals from Speirs. It's an invitation to 'come and take it' and also a invite to go all the way to Wyoming after the war to hunt him down. This is when Tab quits, he's done. Done walking in on them, done listening to shit that carries out of the office.

The album ends up being a mess, probably should have open and honest about the things you wanted in the bedroom office instead of stealing haunted merchandise, but it is what it is. More ends up having to hide it in his cot and the seat of a Jeep to keep it from not only Speirs but the French who think they must have it because it has pictures of them surrendering. (Cue Ron mumbling 'Then don't surrender assholes'.) and in a checkmate bitch move, More enlists Winter's help to help him keep the album.

Dick makes him his jeep driver and now is involved in this theft ring/mating dance More has going on.

This is also fic fodder. Does Speirs throw in his lot with More because its now Easy vs the French or is Winters enough to hold that line and he is now challenged by trying to figure out where More is hiding it and how Winters is involved. (Bonus if he goes through Dick's footlocker and wonders why the hell there is a case of Vat in there.)

OR we go post war and hunt that man down in Wyoming. Dealers choice on whether or not that album is cursed.

Oh and the Western AU where More is the Rancher and this mysterious stranger from Boston walks into his town that isn't big enough for the both of them? Yeah, I could go for that too. Even better if he's cavalry and there to buy remounts for his company. Or get mounted, whatever.

[licensed-fan-girl]

Every time you reference Greek mythology in a Ron Spiers fic my heart grows two sizes!

can I maybe request intelligence officer x ron speirs?? this is like my favorite idea rn....love your work! <33

People-Watching vs People Watching

Ron Speirs x reader

A/N: Anon, thank you so much for the compliment, and thank you so much for trusting me to write this idea -- I had a lot of fun with it (mainly because I'm like halfway through with Fierce Valor and got to sprinkle in more Speirs facts hehehe). This doesn't really take place between or during any episode, and the mission referred to later in the story is made up. So if anyone is looking for historical accuracy, this isn't it lol. (The usual disclaimer: this is written for the fictional depiction from the show -- no disrespect to the real life veterans!) And I hope you enjoy, Anon, because intelligence officer x Speirs is SUCH a good concept 🕊️💖

Warnings: war, blood, guns, drinking, the usual HBOWar things

From across the pub, Ron can hear you laugh politely at something one of the other officers has just said. Reason dictates that he could take his drink and cross the room to join the crowd, but he keeps holding himself back. Instead, he takes another sip of his drink.

"Funny, I should have known that you would be a pensive drunk. But part of me hoped that you would be a loud, fun one instead." Across the table from him, Nixon smirks before taking a sip of his own drink.

Ron sits up a little straighter. "I'm not drunk."

"No, I know. I don't expect anyone will ever see the day that Ron Speirs lets down his guard in that way. I just meant that everyone else with a drink in their hand seems happy, but you don't."

There are arguments that Ron could make in response to that. But how to explain to someone as laid-back and extroverted as Lewis Nixon that he, Ron, is more of a reserved introvert who prefers people-watching to people watching? It's just his nature.

Across the pub, the group laughs again. Nixon's eyes flicker between it and Ron. "Oooh. Okay."

"What?"

Nixon leans back in his chair with a smile.

"What?"

"The new intelligence officer," Nixon says. "(Y/N). It's her, isn't it?"

Ron is thankful that, even with the alcohol that's starting to warm him from inside, he's always been good at keeping his emotions off his face, and that he's not prone to blushing. He's able to keep it cool when he asks, "What are you talking about?"

The captain in front of him just laughs. "Oh come on, Speirs. I'm an intelligence officer. It's my job to notice things. Don't deny it," he adds quickly. "Liking someone is nothing to be embarrassed about. Have you spoken to her?"

"No," Ron admits. He's not shy around girls. He's flirted before. But there's a war going on. And you're a fellow officer. There are probably rules against fraternization, and he would rather not find out what the consequence of breaking those rules is. So when Ron says he hasn't spoken to you, it's not because he's afraid to do it, but because he doesn't trust his heart not to betray him and convince him to put something above his duties in the war. Duties which, he reminds himself, he worked very hard for.

Not to mention the gnawing thought at the back of his mind that keeps telling him that he won't even survive the war.

A crease forms between Nixon's eyebrows as he mulls over Ron's short answer. "Well, are you planning to?"

"I would imagine that I'll have to speak to her at some point, as a fellow officer."

"Well, as a fellow intelligence officer, I talk to her all the time." His smile is cheeky. Even though he's inebriated -- but then again, when is he not? -- anyone could see the wheels turning in his mind as he forms a plan. "You want me to find out more about her, see if she likes anyone? You know, like a wingman?"

Ron almost scoffs. Studying at an all boys military school growing up deprived him of certain childhood experiences, but from what he heard his older sisters say about crushes and public school drama, this seems a bit like some silly high school romance idea.

"Gathering intelligence on a fellow intelligence officer," he muses instead. "That doesn't seem too smart, somehow."

Nixon twists his glass in his hand, eyebrows drawn as he looks towards you across the pub. "Don't worry, Ron. I'll figure something out."

Sometimes it's easier not to argue with someone who's drunk. Sometimes it's easier to let them think that they've won, and then be grateful in the morning when it becomes clear that they've forgotten everything from the night before.

"Sure thing." Ron downs the rest of his glass and stands, offering Nixon a nod before he heads off across the pub, straight for the door.

But behind him, a slow smile has started to creep across Nixon's face as he watches his fellow officer go. If Ron thought that he would get out of this with ease, he was sorely mistaken; it doesn't pay to underestimate Lewis Nixon when he sets his mind to something.

--

The muggy English morning clings to you as you make your way to headquarters. If you had to spend the day inside dealing with meetings and briefings, at least it was such an overcast one -- it would be a shame to waste a good day.

Inside, work is already in full swing as people dart about with coffee and paperwork, trying to set things straight before any of the morning's meetings. Sliding between people, you manage to grab a mug and fill it up with coffee.

"Ah, there you are (Y/N)!" As you take your first sip of your drink, the crowd parts and Nixon makes his way over to you, smiling broadly despite the early hour.

You offer him a salute, but he waves it off -- he might be an officer, but most of the time, the formalities don't bother him. It's nice to have someone like him in this new place to show you the ropes.

Nixon tilts his head, motioning for you to follow him. "I was hoping you would be in soon. We just received some very exciting orders, and I thought that you would be perfect for the job, if you're interested."

"Well I guess that depends. During Basic, I had higher ups convince us that scrubbing the latrine was very exciting, but personally, I don't think I would be too interested in doing it ever again."

The dark-haired man laughs as he leads you into a small office. He pushes some files aside to make room for his own coffee cup as he sits down behind the desk. "How would you feel about getting out of this stuffy building and out into the field?"

"Like you?" You ask. Some people preferred working the indoor intelligence jobs, but it had always been obvious from the way you looked longingly towards the door whenever other officers left their meetings that you would much rather be heading out to work intelligence head-on.

Nixon nods, his own smile growing as he watches your face light up. "It just so happens that we need a new intelligence officer for one of the companies. You'd get to be out in the field, and we could coordinate orders and intelligence between our companies. Now I know that it's not scrubbing the latrine, but it sounds pretty exciting to me." He raises his eyebrows. "Are you interested?"

"Of course."

"Wonderful. You'll be assigned to Dog Company, and working with their lieutenant."

Behind you, the door opens and shuts quickly as someone else enters the room, offering Nixon a salute.

"Ah, and here he is now," Nixon announces before you can even turn to see who has just come in. "(Y/N), I would like for you to meet Lieutenant Ronald Speirs -- the man you'll be working with in Dog Company."

--

Service before self, Ron keeps reminding himself whenever he's around you. Although it's getting harder to ignore the feeling that invades his chest whenever he looks at you.

But even with the constant mantra running through the back of his mind, it's become so easy to be around you. At first he hadn't been sure how he would feel about working so closely with an intelligence officer, but now it's hard for him to remember a time when you weren't around. You were never daunted by his demeanor, and something about the way you approached him -- or approached anything, for that matter -- impressed him. It didn't take long for him to learn to let walls down around you. It's refreshing; he feels like he's able to take off a mask that he didn't even know he had been wearing since the war had started.

Service before self, he thinks the first time you make him laugh. Service before self -- when he realizes how adorable you look when you're puzzling over reports, eyebrows furrowed and tapping a pen to a rhythm that only you can hear. Service before self -- when he glances at you during an officer's meeting and sees that you've been looking at him, only to quickly glance away when your eyes meet. Service before self -- the night that neither of you can sleep and he finds himself telling you his fondest memories of traveling to Scotland with his parents. Service before self -- a few days later after a skirmish, when the two of you have finished checking on the men and are checking in with each other, standing close, hearts beating fast; another step closer, your head tilting, and then him asking, "Can I - ?" Service before --

Self. Selfish? Ron wonders as your lips crash together in the long anticipated kiss. No. Not selfish; just a rearranging of priorities: you before him. You before anything and everything.

--

Even men made of legends and rumors can have trouble jumpstarting their day. Especially at three in the morning when he has been woken up by someone knocking on his door, announcing that he is needed for an urgent meeting.

Ron is good about waking up, being alert, being able to function. That doesn't mean that he likes it. He pours himself a cup of coffee as soon as he gets to headquarters, the smell of the morning elixir helping to coax his senses into action as he makes his way back to the office where he hears voices.

"And we're sure it has to be Easy?" He would know your voice anywhere.

"I wouldn't trust anyone else with this," Colonel Sink replies, voice just as action-ready as ever. "But the question is, who?"

"A good shot like Shifty Powers would be ideal," Winters says. Part of Ron is glad to hear that he also sounds a bit tired -- it means that Ron is not the only officer whose normal, mortal instincts are giving him a hard time this morning. When Ron steps into the room, only the other sleepy officer seems to acknowledge his presence.

"But he doesn't speak German," you say. "Who in Easy does? Just Liebgott and Webster?"

Colonel Sink nods. "What do you think of them?"

"If I may," Nixon cuts in. "Liebgott might get too trigger happy."

"So then just Webster?"

"No, Webster and Liebgott would balance each other out, I think."

Everyone's eyes turn to you, waiting for an answer.

"I know them both. I trust them both."

"But?" The colonel asks, sensing something in your voice.

You bite your lip, your eyes darting between the other officers as you think. "I think we would all know who I would prefer to come with me."

"But Speirs doesn't speak German."

At the mention of his name, Speirs' attention snaps from you to the rest of the room. If he had felt a step behind when he entered the room, now he feels like everyone else has taken off running, and he's stuck behind them in the dust.

Your face falls. "I know."

"Well, I think it's settled then." Colonel Sink offers you a fatherly pat on the shoulder before turning to the door, nodding to Speirs as he passes, and then taking his leave.

The lower ranking officers visibly relax the moment he leaves, a collective sigh of relief and disappointment surging through the room.

"I'll go get Liebgott and Webster so they can be fitted and briefed," Nixon offers. His eyes catch Ron's in the doorway and he nods.

You turn, finally seeing him for the first time. In a second, you're out of your seat and bee-lining towards him. A frown tugs at your lips and darkens your eyes. "I wish it were you."

"For what?" Ron asks. "What's going on?"

"You didn't hear?"

He shakes his head, watching your frown grow deeper with every second.

"I've been chosen to infiltrate the German line to gather intelligence."

--

Ron has never seen anyone look at themselves with as much hatred as Liebgott does when he puts on the German uniform and sees himself in the mirror. If Webster didn't already look like he was so uncomfortable that he wants to crawl out of his skin, then Joe's scowl and his muttering would dampen the already somber mood.

Webster swallows. "We look --"

"Like them," Liebgott spits.

"That's the point," Nixon reminds them. "It's got to be convincing. There can be absolutely no suspicion once the three of you cross their line."

The bathroom door swings open and you step out, looking just as uncomfortable as the Easy men. After seeing you in your paratrooper uniform the entire war, seeing you dressed like a German nurse is almost enough to take Ron off-guard -- which means that it will convince the Germans.

You balk at yourself in the mirror. "This feels . . ."

"Disgusting?" Liebgott offers. "Unnatural? Disagreeable? Excruciating?"

Webster lets out a low whistle. "Those are some big words, Lieb."

It's obvious that he's trying to lighten the mood a little, but Liebgott's scowl only deepens. "Not everyone needs a college degree to have a wide vocabulary, Web."

"Let's review one more time," Nixon suggests before the two have the chance to turn their spat ugly.

"We cross the German line," you say. "If anyone asks, we were POWs who escaped and are trying to find our company. We find their headquarters, take the maps of their routes to see where they're going next, and make it back here as quickly and safely as we can."

Nixon nods. "Good." He hands his men some convincing looking documents that will back up their story. He fixes Liebgott with a firm look. "Before you go, Winters wants to talk to you."

Everyone knows that he's going to be getting a warning about what will happen if he gets trigger happy while on the other side of the line, but for is sake, Webster heads out with him to receive a similar warning, even though no one is worried about bookish, thoughtful Webster acting impulsively.

Which leaves you and Ron alone.

"Hey." You nudge his shoulder, something that's not quite a smile pulling at your mouth. "Don't worry about me. I've got this. We've got this."

Ron nods. "I know. I just wish I were the one going with you. I would feel a whole lot better about the whole thing."

"Me too. But the war won't always let us get what we want."

"Don't say that." You're referring to the mission, but it makes him think of his own belief that he won't make it through the war. It's fine for him to think so pessimistically, he reasons, but you shouldn't have to. The war hasn't always allowed him what he wants -- hell, life in general hasn't -- but he's stubborn enough that he's going to at least try to make things go his way. He suddenly knows how Orpheus felt when he determined to bring Eurydice back from the underworld.

You glance at the door that the other men left through, making sure that there isn't anyone watching, and then you take his hand. "I'll see you when I get back."

"I'll be waiting as close to the line for you as I can."

"I know you will."

And then you kiss him, putting self over service one last time.

--

The first thing that Ron hears is the heavy footsteps and the panting of multiple people trying to catch their breath. He automatically raises his rifle, just in case.

The first thing he sees is the blood covering the front of your nurse uniform and staining your hands. Your hands, which are white-knuckling a small stack of folders, but all he can focus on is the blood. Beside you, he only just registers that Webster and Liebgott are okay -- sweaty and blood splattered, but alive and back on the American side of the line.

No one is behind you. At least you weren't pursued.

Ron swings his rifle across his back and is by your side in a second, his hands automatically turning into those of a medic, searching you for a wound. He takes in a breath, ready to call out for Doc Roe, praying he'll be in earshot when you catch his hands, leaving streaks of red behind.

"Ron."

"Where did they get you?" He can't see any sort of entry wound, but he continues to search anyway. "(Y/N), where were you hit?" He doesn't ask his most important question: who do I have to kill?

"Ron." You still his hands. "It's not mine."

He freezes. "What?"

"It's not mine."

Webster is quick to explain, "Someone in their headquarters got suspicious about her uniform. They asked why she was wearing American shoes. We tried to explain that they were given to her when we were POWs, but one of the commanders got angry, saying that she should never have accepted anything from the enemy."

"He started asking too many questions, wouldn't let us leave," you pick up, squeezing Ron's hands so he won't feel how they shake. "We did what we had to do, and we got out with what we could."

"Oh thank God." In his relief, even with Webster and Liebgott right there, he cups your face and kisses you like you've been separated for eternity. You over him. You before the world.

"Oh." He's vaguely aware of Liebgott and Webster sharing a look. "Well this explains quite a lot."

"I'm okay." You rest your forehead against Ron's, both of you breathing heavily. It's quiet, but you huff a small, teasing laugh. "I'd have hoped that you would have more faith in me than that, Ron."

"You know I do," he assures you. "I'm just relieved, is all." And then, for good measure, he kisses you again. This, he thinks, is only appropriate -- it's what Orpheus would have done had Eurydice returned to him.

Who cares if there are people watching?

[sweaterkittensahoy]

My intentionally slow-writing project: Ron and George as soulmates.

Of course the Foy attack is gonna be in it. I'm not an idiot.

The attack begins, and Ron spots George easily. He's up front with Lipton, the both of them keeping pace with Dike. Which is exactly as it should be. 

Until Dike ducks behind a haystack and seems to just…halt. 

"What the fuck?" Nixon mutters. 

"What is he doing?" Winters asks in a tone that reads as 'what the fuck' without him using the language.

Ron watches the snow and the dirt spit up from the ground due to enemy fire. He watches tufts of hay flick off the haystack where Dike is…he's cowering, Ron thinks. It's the only word for it. Even so far away, he can see George and Lipton are both clearly yelling, and Dike is…nothing. He's nothing. He looks like an empty shell of a man even as he gestures and yells in return. 

Ron is vaguely aware of Strayer yelling something at Winters, but all he can see is more hay flying off the haystack and George desperately shoving the radio handset at Dike. He can't feel anything from George right now, but he doesn't need the bond to know that George is angry and terrified. 

He's literally jerked out of his thoughts by Winters grabbing his sleeve and yanking hard. "Spiers!" Winters says, and Ron's entire body and mind snaps into soldier mode at the tone. "Get out there! Relieve Dike! Take that attack on in!"

So, that's what Ron does. He runs to the haystack and relieves Dike, then demands a sit-rep from Lipton. He spares a single glance to George, and for a moment, Ron can feel him again, a desperate relief and overwhelming adoration coiling through him. Ron sends back the same as Lipton explains they need to hook up with I-Company. 

So, that's what Ron does. 

I have no idea when this fic is gonna be done, and I'm not gonna start posting until the whole thing is complete. Trying to just let myself write for the enjoyment, and it's working so far. Getting a daily bit of work done, and it feels very nice.

(Also, this was gonna be Ron/George, but then my Lipton feelings got me, so it's gonna be OT3 by the end)

[howling-harpy]

Outsider POV fic: Spiers coming to easy and realizing that half of the company is queer but trying to hide it from him for fear that he is gonna kill them or something (if he were to low-key come out to put them at ease I would consider naming my firstborn after you) I love you and you work ❤️❤️

Word count: 1495

A/N: Lmao what a prompt! This speaks to my silly side. Thank you for the prompt and reading my stuff. <3

*

On the contrary to popular belief, Ron Speirs had excellent social skills. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call friendly, but he was quick to figure other people out and often used this to his advantage, and this was exactly what worried certain soldiers of Easy when he took command.

Sure, he was competent and they were glad to have him – professionally speaking. But as soon as he took command, he started evaluating his new subordinates with sharp, all-seeing eyes, and the experience was unnerving to say the least. There was no telling what he might do.

Harry just couldn’t make his mind about Speirs. He didn’t dislike him, he didn’t like him, and nothing in between fit either, solely because he couldn’t get a grasp of the man. He wasn’t the rule-abiding kind like Winters, but somehow managed to be less fun, and he was temperamental but not up to a play fight or a rousing conversation. Most often his face was blank, a cold mask that Harry couldn’t read, and sometimes he broke into a grin that somehow didn’t help the matter.

Most importantly, Harry couldn’t decide if the man was to be trusted or not. Harry was the kind who would take a bullet for his friends and take their secrets to the grave, but as much as Speirs was now a part of their group, Harry couldn’t tell if he would follow his lead on that one.

The thing was, Harry wasn’t sure if Nix and Dick knew that he knew. They certainly hadn’t talked about it, but there was a relaxed energy between the three of them, and Harry could sense an unspoken agreement they had all somehow formed. He didn’t make comments or tease them about women, and Nix and Dick sat very close to each other, sometimes with their arms resting on a backrest of a couch or a chair behind the other’s back, and all was well.

When Speirs joined them, Harry had to put a stop to that. He wasn’t sure if his friends were as careful as he felt they should be, and they certainly couldn’t talk about it either, so Harry found himself feigning off many close calls by jamming himself between Nix and Dick and loudly interrupting their word games when they threatened to take a flirtatious tone. Nix and Dick both gave him weird looks about it, but again, unspoken agreement, and Harry was busy staring Speirs down to really pay attention.

I dare you to try and hurt them, Harry said with his stare, but all he got back was one of those blank stares.

The legacy of Bill Guarnere lived on, and even if Martin approved of Speirs as their new commander and respected him as a combat leader, he couldn’t ignore the stories about him killing one of his own. Martin wasn’t so gullible as to believe every piece of gossip that came his way, but this one was just plausible enough to be a reason for concern.

“Take care of Babe for me, will ya?” had been one of the last things Guarnere had said to him before he was evacuated for good. “Keep him out of trouble he can’t handle.”

In Martin’s opinion Bill babied his best buddy way too much, but he had to admit that Speirs was trouble barely anyone could handle, let alone a chipper red-headed Philly boy who talked way too much and wore his heart on his sleeve.

Martin didn’t know what to do about it. His position didn’t hold much influence and he couldn’t exactly keep the sharp gaze of their new C.O. off one of the loudest soldiers of the company, but he could put himself between them. He tried to think what Bill had always done when Babe threatened to take things too far or give himself away with his sputtering and bright blush, but all he came up were things that were way too Guarnere for him. So what Martin was left with was his own stare and herding anyone who might be Babe’s type away from him.

After only a few weeks Martin knew he had failed. Speirs’ eyes followed Babe far too long, and Martin just knew that he had figured him out. All he could do at that point was to cross his arms and meet the captain’s stare head on, trying to communicate that to get to the beloved charge of his friend, anyone would have to go through him first. Speirs just looked back.

After getting divorced Lipton had been strangely composed. Luz had always imagined that being abandoned like that would be an experience that stopped the world on its tracks and shattered a person, or at least hurt them for a long time.

Lipton however had shrugged it off rather easily, but Luz wrote it off as a strange form of combat stress. The man had seemed almost relieved in some way, and then entered something of a workaholic phase. When Lipton recovered from pneumonia, his mother-henning found an entirely new gear as if he was trying to make up for the few weeks he had been down.

Luz was good with people. He loved people, and in his opinion the best thing in the army was that he got to meet all sorts of people he wouldn’t have otherwise ever crossed paths with, and Lipton was certainly one of those he was grateful for. The man had a strange streak to him, Luz had realized when they had become close, something private and hidden that only showed itself briefly in twilight hours, and his divorce had amplified that. Luz didn’t have the energy to judge, doubted he even wanted to, but rather thought it interesting. The army really called all sorts.

But his dear mother hen of a friend didn’t look after himself much, and Speirs was the fox that had sneaked into the henhouse.

What Luz had feared the most was that someone unkind would find out about Lipton, but that had already happened. He could tell it from Speirs’ keen, cold eyes that inspected Lipton, following him around, and Luz was discovering whole new depths of fear. What would happen now? Military police? But there was no proof. Some sort of a vigilante punishment? Would Speirs do that? He might. There was no telling what he could do.

Luz found himself staring at Speirs filled with anxiety. He didn’t know what to do, how he could help his friend or how to even warn him. Luz tried to figure out some sort of a battleplan, but all he could do was frown and stare and frown some more.

One day when Easy was loading the trucks and preparing to get on the road again, Speirs looked back. Luz jumped at the sudden eye contact but held it. Speirs’ eyes were stern and cold, and Luz couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking.

To his surprise, Speirs seemed to sigh to himself and rolled his eyes. Luz hadn’t recovered from his confusion when Speirs turned away and gestured to someone in the crowd, and Luz found out who when Lipton jogged to him like responding to his beckoning gesture was the best thing he did today.

Speirs patted the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, put one between his lips and said something to Lipton that Luz couldn’t hear. Lipton started to go through his own pockets, and after a moment fished out a lighter from the pocket of his trousers, then leaned in to give Speirs light.

The cigarette bounced between Speirs’ lips and forced Lipton to concentrate harder as the flame wouldn’t take. Without realizing it, Lipton leaned in closer, angling his body towards Speirs and bringing his hands closer to his face.

Speirs waited while obviously teasing, then leaned closer himself and suddenly took a hold of Lipton’s hand to steady it. He let the flame kiss the tip of his cigarette far longer than was necessary, his eyes looking at Lipton instead of their hands, and Lipton looked back, a smile rising to his face.

The moment took place right there in broad daylight in the middle of the entire company, and then it ended. Speirs let go of Lipton’s hand, Lipton took a step back, and the men regarded each other from a decent distance again.

Then someone called Lipton, he jolted awake from what had entranced him, and he threw one last look at Speirs before hurrying off. Speirs took a long inhale from his cigarette, truly savoured it, then suddenly looked back at Luz who had stared at the exchange as if hypnotized.

Speirs’ eyes were still cold, but now Luz detected something almost bored in them. Speirs lifted the cigarette to his lips again, quirked a brow and shrugged at Luz as if saying make of that what you will.

Luz did. He sighed in relief.

[finnobhair]

I’ve been rereading your Ron Spiers story and let me just say it is so well written and one of my favourite fics of all time. It’s like coming home after being gone for a long period of time. So I wanted to thank you for all the time you’ve spent on it. Have a great day🥰😘

My goodness - thank you so much for taking the time to tell me this.  I so appreciate it!!!  I’m so happy you like it and it’s treating you well.  Hope you have a great day too :-) <3