Gritting his teeth, Sniper finally pulled the splinter free and dropped it to the workshop floor. He was happy not to touch the bloody thing anymore. Spy had made a few pained squeaks and grabbed at him until the splinter was finally out. He seemed to be out cold now, his grip weak. Sniper popped open the medikit, taking out the usual salves and syringes and doing his best to patch up his enemy-turned-ally.
The injection worked a lot like the medigun fumes did, knitting people back together like torn cloth. It was always sickening to watch and Sniper turned his eyes to Spy's face as his side grew whole and unscarred muscle and skin regrew. He was still covered in blood and his mask was torn, but there was colour in Spy's cheeks now and the tension he'd been holding in his muscles seemed to melt off him.
Sniper took a slow breath. He was no good at this, taking care of other people. He was self-sufficient. He often didn't even go to Medic when he needed to, preferring to take care of himself.
He hadn't even realized it until the sound was gone, but Spy's breathing had gone from a bloody rasp to clear, even, breaths. Whatever damage had been done to Spy's lungs had been cleared up. Unfortunately, the damage Sniper had done to his shirt and jacket was still there. Tugging off his red shirt, Sniper pulled Spy's arms through the sleeves carefully before laying him back down. Sniper still had his undershirt on, that was enough. Still, without the red of his shirt he felt oddly naked.
Spy returned to the world in stops and starts. The first time, just after the injection, the pain of the wound and the rapidly repairing muscles, organs and skin sent him back under again.
The second time, consciousness stuck. He became aware of sounds first. A soft rustle nearby, a distant explosion. Then feeling returned. His lungs. He could breathe again. The pain was gone. The pain was gone. It was wonderful beyond relief to be free of it.
Spy took a deep breath as he opened his eyes, which set off another coughing fit. No dragging, stabbing pain this time though. Just a few final flecks of the blood caught in the back of his throat.
Spy could see something red. Of all the BLUs, he was the one who would be the least disturbed to find himself in red. He needed it for his disguises after all.
The odd bit though was how the shirt didn't fit. And it smelled wrong too, like sweat and gunpowder and leather. His disguises were never like that.
He looked up and found the RED Sniper watching him.
Oh. Well that explained it.
He was wearing the RED Sniper's shirt.
Somehow that made it very difficult to look him in the eye. Spy's gaze fell on the long, bloody splinter of wood discarded on the ground.
'How about we never do that again?' he asked. It was supposed to come out cold and aloof. Instead Spy just sounded lost and disorientated, even to himself.
Sniper cracked a crooked, toothy grin and nodded. 'Sounds good to me,' he agreed.
He'd been in the middle of debating with himself whether or not he ought to remove Spy's mask. Not only was he curious about what lay underneath, but the thing was torn and stuck to Spy's skin with blood. It looked uncomfortable as all hell. He hoped he didn't look as guilty as he felt for even considering it. Spy must wear it for a reason. Sniper could understand hiding. Even if they had never liked each other, even if he hated that damn scar on his cheek, they were just mercenaries. Spy took things too far, but he had been hired to be a pain in the ass, same as Sniper.
Though the pain was gone and he could breath freely, Spy felt uncomfortably... sticky. Or at least, too much was currently sticking to him with thick, tacky blood, to be comfortable. He peeled the tattered remains of his shirt and jacket free of his side but didn't know what to do next. If he let go, they'd get stuck to him again. In order to get it off, he'd have to take the Sniper's shirt off. But at some point in time that would leave him topless in front of the Sniper.
For most of his life, this would have been nothing significant. It was just that he'd been fighting this war so long now, the identity of 'Spy' had overwritten the man beneath. Spies hide themselves. That's what they do. No one had seen more than what little of his face the mask allowed them to see, and the occasional glimpses of his wrists. Everything else was hidden away, come rain or shine.
But it was ridiculous. Of course he could be shirtless in front of someone. Of course he could. Really he could. He had nothing to hide.
It was just that maybe he smoked a little too often. And maybe that suppressed his appetite a little too much. And maybe he skipped meals just once too often. And maybe he was painfully aware that without the suit he wouldn't be that sleek Spy dressed in neatly-cut blue, he'd just be a man. A skinny, underweight Frenchman. Nothing mysterious or intimidating about him at all.
Nope, it was no good, the shirt needed to come off. Time to sit up properly and calmly take it off as though he was the most confident man in the world.
He tried. The minute Spy got halfway up, the world began to swim in front of his eyes again. He crumpled back down with an angry little noise.
Ah yes. The blood loss. He'd forgotten about that one.
If the Sniper had used a Medikit injection (which he must have done, else Spy wouldn't be here right now), that would have healed his wounds and boosted his production of blood cells. It was just that those injections weren't as strong as a proper medigun beam, so they couldn't do the second bit nearly as well.
This was awful. And pathetic. He was fine now (in theory) but too weak to even take a damn shirt off. In front of the enemy Sniper.
Today was not Spy's day.
'Just sit,' Sniper told him, heading to the workshop's sawdust-covered industrial sink and turning the taps to see if they worked.
Blessedly, clear, clean water came out and Sniper set about finding something for them to drink out of. He finally found a couple cracked mugs and filled them both after giving them a good rinse. The water was warm, but it was better than nothing. While he was at it, he wet his bandana too.
Spy was different like this. It was hard to see him as the same pain-in-the-ass enemy that he usually was. He was so thin, so… human. Usually it looked as though nothing bothered him, but now he was a mess.
He set the mugs on the counter so Spy could choose his own, offering him the bandana to wipe the blood off his face and side. His own undershirt was stuck to his chest with Spy's blood but there was no way he was washing his bloody shirt and wearing something cold and wet in the middle of a battlefield, even if they did seem safe for the moment.
Spy levered himself up into a sitting position. He managed to move slowly enough that it didn't set off the dizziness again, but he still felt sick. And thirsty. His body was horribly dehydrated after losing all that blood.
He watched the Sniper like a hawk as the RED seemed to read his mind and turned a tap on experimentally. Spy intended to make a fuss about the state of the mugs, but then Sniper cleaned them out thoroughly as though, once again, he'd read Spy's mind.
'Thank you,' Spy said as Sniper handed him the bandana. It was a simple, common phrase. Two words, two syllables. But Spy struggled with it all the same. It was his pride, not the words themselves, that was the issue here. He was used to working alone. He was used to fighting with the Sniper. Used to killing him. Mocking him. This sudden change had pulled the metaphorical rug out from under Spy's feet and now he had no idea where to stand.
He picked up one of the mugs and drained it before turning away to carefully pat at his face with the bandana. He winced as the damp fabric brushed over little abrasions in his skin from the blast. The injection had gone into healing his major wounds, not the scratches that remained.
God he was a mess.
'No worries,' Sniper waited until Spy had chosen his own mug, then downed the water in the remaining mug. He tugged his hat down over his eyes and gave Spy a little space, ignoring the Frenchman, letting him take his time fixing himself up. He looked like hell.
Spy poked at his balaclava, feeling the damage. It felt very tight across his nose and cheeks as the small amount of the material left strained to stay in place. A couple of strands gave way at his touch. Spy very much suspected the rest were going to snap soon. He should get away from the Sniper before that happened.
Except, he knew he wouldn't be able too. He was too tired, too weak.
'Want to cut the rest of that off?' Sniper offered, unable to resist after he saw some of the mask rip under Spy's hands.
Cut it off? Cut his mask off? What the hell was the Sniper thinking? How dare he?
Then a rebellious little part of Spy, one that was still lightheaded from blood loss and reeling at all that had happened, asked, 'why not?'
Why not? What did it matter? What did any of it matter?
Was he scared of someone seeing his face?
Yes.
Yes he was.
Spy was scared enough of anyone seeing him without some of his clothes on, let alone his mask. But he was going to take the shirt off in a moment anyway. So why not? Why not?
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the idea. His breathing hitched.
What did it matter?
The world had been turned upside down already. They were fighting robots for Christ's sake! And the RED Sniper had helped him, the BLU Spy. It was the end of the world. The end of his world. The end of the Spy.
He felt dizzy again, but a strange, half-mad grin spread across his face.
'Why not?' he asked. Then he laughed, a tight, pained sound that was barely a laugh at all.
'Why not cut it all off?'
'It doesn't hide the shape of your face or anything,' Sniper agreed, pulling out his kukri. He moved carefully, giving Spy space and time to move away. Bit by bit, he cut off the mask, revealing the man's thin, blood-stained face. Spy was pale, with a bit of a tan where the mask didn't cover his skin. He was stubbly and unshaven, his hair a bit wild from being under a mask.
'There, that'll feel better,' he said softly.
Spy had expected Sniper to give him the knife, not for the Sniper to start cutting the mask away himself.
Spy sobered up immediately, the giddy, heady feeling from before disappearing as he sat perfectly still. The Sniper didn't crowd him, and gave him the chance to move away, but Spy didn't. Better to let the Sniper remove his mask than to make a fuss and end up getting cut.
He intended taking his mask off to be... something. Something important. Spy tried to work out what as a clean slice freed the top of his neck.
He'd intended to do it himself as some kind of defiant act. A show of strength. Proof that he didn't care about exposing his face to the enemy.
But instead the Sniper had taken Spy's autonomy away from him and was cutting the mask off for him. Slice-by-slice, the enemy Sniper was exposing him. Except that clearly wasn't the Sniper's intent. Every movement was so careful, so precise. Delicate.
Spy didn't know how to react. He'd always used offense as the first line of defense. He'd taunt people, wind them up, mock them, act prickly and sarcastic and never have a nice word to say to anyone. But it really all was just a defense mechanism. And in the face of such sincere care from a man who should hate him...Spy felt as though his real mask wasn't the only one the Sniper had cut away.
When it was done, Spy ran a nervous hand through his hair, leaving a mess of tousled waves in his wake.
No, this really wasn't the proud, defiant moment he'd intended. He couldn't even look at the Sniper.
'Thank you,' he said again, his voice small. A flicker of anger licked at his insides. Not at the Sniper but at himself. This was pathetic. He forced himself to raise his head, forced himself to look the Sniper's way.
'Yeah,' Sniper nodded to him, watching Spy for a moment. He'd never expected to see him like this; vulnerable, thin, human.