(-fellas fer sun reson i SUCK ASSCHEEKZ at makin short greetin mesagez IM JUS LETIN YOU KNOW IM WORKING ON IT!1!21!!2)

The balaclava was an essential part of the Spy's image, both on the matter of battle and general appearance. Not only did it help with disguising himself for the opposing team's naked eye, but it also hid most Spy's facial features- that excluding his mouth and eerily scrutinizing eyes.

You've never seen the Frenchman's face properly, and it was all thanks to that silly mask Spy was insistent of wearing- even when you and the fellas weren't out beating and shooting BLUs and even each other into tiny bloody pulps. It filled you with reluctant intrigue; like an annoying phantom itch on your palm that refused to disappear no matter how hard you scratched.

I mean- this was New Mexico. Temperatures here could get and got ridiculously high and exasperating. How did Spy not melt in that mask and suit? At this point you were starting to develop a small theory that the Frenchie's balaclava was just part of his skin. And, honestly? You wouldn't be surprised if that thought turned out to be true.

One rowdy evening while you were hanging out with the gang (🤑🤑) over a couple bottles of celebratory Scrumpy and Red Shed, you suddenly gained consciousness from the cloudy effect of alcohol swimming through your system, your bleary little eyes catching sight of that darn Frenchie sneaking out of room the rest of you were blacking out in.

You couldn't just let Spy run off and not follow him. What type of silly billy wouldn't?

So obviously you decided to stalk after the masked enigma, having to squeeze through a yelling Soldier and hysterical Demoman in order to reach the door. Once you slipped into the corridor unbeknownst to the other mercs still in the rec room, you (as quietly as you could) chased after Spy in the dimly lit hallway, coming to a halt to hide behind as corner as the spy retreated into his office. DANGNABIT!!

Surprisingly and conveniently though (shh its to carry the plot), Spy left his door only the slightest bit ajar; A clear and welcome invitation for you to enter!! And so that's what you did. You quietly snuck into the room on your tippiest of toes, making sure to leave the door open just incase you need to make a hasty retreat.

Spy was standing in front of that ridiculously tall mirror sitting in one corner or his office, his back turned to you. He was softly humming an unfamiliar tune to himself as he did whatever it was he was doing infront of his mirror—which to you seemed to be undressing, seeing the Frenchman was currently in the white collared undershirt normally hidden beneath the jacket—all in which, in the most predictable Spy fashion: Spy was smoking a cigarette.

You took another step further into the room, tilting your chin upwards to glance over the spy's shoulder and instead at his reflection, being met with a sight that almost made you gasp aloud—oh, fart-!!

Spy's usually concealed face was.. devoid of any sort of covering for once, the lack of his mask revealing his somewhat dishevelled, dark hair. But that wasn't what you were really focusing on. What really got your immediate attention was Spy's face, taking in his stubble, every wrinkle—everything, with baited breath.

.. But your mini gazing-fest was quick to come to a stop as Spy noticed a pair of eyes—your eyes—staring over his shoulder at his exposed being, whipping around so fast with an indignant inhale that it was enough to make you feel the whiplash.