Spy looked down at the bloody and broken body lying before him. Although it was barely noticeable, they were still breathing. Even though the face belonging to the body was turned away, partially submerged in the mud of the sawmill, Spy knew who it was. He could recognize those gangly limbs anywhere. Spy sucked in his breath sharply, knowing he would have (and should have) been able to cut the Australian into pieces by now if he'd tried. But something had stopped him.

He turned the Sniper's body over, so he was facing him, rather than the ground. The older man didn't have the strength or the modesty to say anything. Instead, Mick Mundy just stared up at the Frenchman, expecting to be shot with that cursed revolver in mere seconds. It seemed ironic he'd die being shot between the eyes; the same way he'd killed so many others.

"I shouldn't be doing zhis." Spy murmured just loud enough for the other man to hear. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out the cigarette case, confusing the Sniper. Instead of taking out and lighting a cigarette like he'd expected, the Spy pressed one of the hidden buttons on the right side of the tin case and tucked it into Mick's shirt pocket. One of the most crucial things a Spy learns in his training in espionage is to never, for any circumstance, use his disguise kit on anyone else, much less an enemy. Even though his mind and training were screaming against it, he watched and let the machine use its mysterious ways to turn the person laying in front of him into the Spy's own BLU Sniper.

"Wot?" Mick finally gasped, trying to sit up. He fell back and winced.

"Medic!" Spy yelled in a perfect imitation of his Australian accent.

"Why?..." Mick managed to choke through the smoke of the battle and his own blood. "Why are y'doin' this fer me?" The masked man confused the Sniper even more than the Pyro, believe it or not. Sometimes, he was a back-stabbing, traitorous, shameless bastard, and yet, other times, he reminded him of an innocent and gentle child who'd been somehow thrown into the hell he called a profession. God, he wished he could see behind that damn balaclava.

"Zhere are some answers zhat can't be answered correctly." The French accent was surprisingly monotone, and unsurprisingly dramatic in its words. The lack of emotion in his voice after saving the enemy's life surprised both Mick and the Spy, himself.

The sound of an approaching Medic interrupted both of their thoughts. "Take care of yourself, mon ami." Spy smirked and cloaked himself.

"Thanks, Spook." Mick said in no clear direction, as he did not have any idea where the Spy had gone, now that he was invisible. The Spy smiled to himself, knowing the Sniper couldn't see him display such obvious happiness. He turned his back almost reluctantly, and walked off, hearing the familiar German accent speak charismatically. "Ah! Zhere you are, Herr Sniper!" The futuristic hum of a medi-gun filled his ears and he knew he'd succeded in saving the enemy Sniper. He couldn't fathom why he felt accomplished after doing that. He should have probably should have felt guilty, but instead, he just felt glad knowing Mick Mundy would be around a little while longer.

As he continued to walk away, Spy remembered that he'd left his cigarette case with the other man. "Ah, merde." He swore under his breath in his native language. Smoking was less of a habit and more of an addiction for him, he needed those cigarettes. Not to mention without his masks, he'd be a sitting duck once he got back on the battlefield. But for some strange reason, in the face of being nearly defenseless, he grinned. He grinned because he knew it meant he'd have an excuse to go and visit the Australian again.