Kingsman: The Whiskey Rebellion

Chapter Five

Dr. Aliev kept to his word and put an ankle splint on my repaired ankle, not too long after I woke up. He was especially gentle with it, being extra careful not to break my ankle again. If I was in any pain, however, Whiskey kept his coarse on top of mine, allowing me to squeeze it hard if I was hurting. That's how much Whiskey has grown since I met him.

At first, when I met him, Whiskey seemed like the tough-skinned, crazy-ass cowboy who was incapable of love. Now that I've known him for some time, I realized that I was the one who feared love rather than him. I guess that's what happens when you try to recover from a big tragedy like your twin brother's death.

"Just make sure you're careful," the doctor advised as Whiskey and I left the medical bay and headed to our refuge wing.

The Romanov Agency was gracious enough to find us our very own room for us to rest and recover in. It was a large, very nice room that would put any normal hotel room to shame. This was not a simple hotel room. It was a suite. There was a soft, queen-sized bed that was directly adjacent from a decently sized window that overlooked a sweet view of Yekaterinburg. There was also a nice couch, a couple chairs, a side table, and a big flat-screen television. I could live here if I wanted to, but I knew that I couldn't because of this mission.

Balor needed to be stopped, and Whiskey and I were the only ones who could do just that.

I was sprawled out across the bed, while Whiskey leaned against the window frame, looking out to the city outside. He was running a plan in his head about what to do next, since this surgery of mine threw everything out of proportion. However, it was necessary for me to get this surgery. Otherwise, I'd be in much worse condition than I was already in.

"So what now?" I asked Whiskey, still keeping my eyes glued to the ceiling above.

Whiskey, meanwhile, kept his eyes glued on the world outside the window. "Nothing we can do but to go to that ball tonight, sugar."

"Luckily, I used the express mail and ordered a ball gown just in time," I remarked. "It should be here any minute now."

Whiskey gave me a confused and shocked glance. "When did you order that?"

"On the private jet to Russia, right before I fell asleep."

Whiskey chuckled as he moved away from the window and sat along the edge of the bed, slowly running his hand up and down the inside of my thigh. "I learn somethin' new about ya every day."

"So do I," I said, swallowing some water and two painkiller tablets. "I didn't know about half the shit I did."

A knock then emerged at the door, which caused me to stir. Slowly, I rolled out of the bed, swung my feet around to the floor, and hobbled over to the door. I walked like a pirate with a peg leg, with my right leg remaining straight, while my left leg operated normally. It pained me to be handicapped like this, but I knew that this was the very best case scenario for someone like me with a broken fucking ankle.

When I opened the door, I saw the package sitting on the ground in front of me. It was a normal, six-by-eight foot cardboard box, clattered with a good amount of shipping and customs-approval labels. I tried to crouch down to the ground to grab it, but it was no use with the ankle splint on my ankle.

"I got it, sugar. Don't worry," Whiskey said, reaching down to grab the package.

"Are you sure?" I asked, hobbling back into the room.

Whiskey beamed confidently. "Of course. Plus, it ain't even that heavy, despite it being a ball gown."

"Trust me, Whiskey. Not all ball gowns are heavy. It all depends on the material," I responded. "This dress just happens to be made of a shitload of chiffon, rhinestones, and sparkled beading."