Easy Company x Reader (child)
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.
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.
The others turned to him.
“Did anyone else hear that?”
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.”
“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?”
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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.”
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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.
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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.
“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.”
“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.”
“And for the love of God,” she finished, hands on her hips, “somebody go get Winters.”
The room erupted into action.
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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.
“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.”
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A short while later, Luz knelt in front of the little girl, holding a spoonful of applesauce. “Alright, sweetheart. Open up.”
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.
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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.
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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 all of us, dumbass.”
“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.
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.
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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.”
“You think she’ll remember us?” Malarkey asked after a beat.
Nixon smirked, pulling out 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.”
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