Kingsman: The Whiskey Rebellion

Chapter Eight

To reconvene and develop the next part of our plan, Whiskey and I ventured back to the Romanov Agency, carefully plotting out the next phase of this mission in our heads. So carefully, in fact, that we dared not share the personal ideas that we kept to ourselves. I had my ideas, and he had his. There was no way in hell that we were sharing any possible ways to take down Balor without conclusively agreeing on one together.

All plans have the chance to go to shit real quick, I thought to myself.

My daddy would always say that whenever you come with a plan for something, always have a backup plan. That way, if your first plan backfires horribly, then you have at least the backup plan to go off of. Of course, I kept that advice of Dad's glued into my brain because someday, it might be useful.

Hell, some of it is still useful to this day.

I decided to change uniforms just so Whiskey and I could continue to blend in with society here in Russia. That way, it would be harder for Balor to track us, and the element of surprise would still be used to our advantage.

"So what's the plan, Whiskey?" I asked, putting on a short black coat.

"I'm—I'm not sure, sugar," he answered.

I headed out of the bathroom and into the main part of the suite, where I found Whiskey once again staring blankly. He was acting weird, looking almost distraught. It was as if something was eating away at him. Something was definitely bothering him.

"You okay, cowboy?" I asked, being genuinely concerned for Whiskey as he's done for me.

He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and sighed. "Yeah. Somethin's just been botherin' me lately."

I finished slipping on my tight gray snow pants and white snow boots and took a seat next to him on the blue couch in our room. "What's going on? It's okay. You can tell me."

It felt a bit weird saying that, but of course, it was a good thing. I was finally drifting away from my abrasive personality, though I didn't intend on revamping it entirely. I became almost used to this no-nonsense, stubborn personality, and I don't ever intend on letting it go. I will keep embracing my genuine, heartfelt side when it's necessary to.

"Remember at the masquerade ball when we escaped into that small storage closet?"

"Yeah. What about it?" I asked.

"What I did there, it just—it just ate at me. I don't know what came over me, and I just needed to get that off my chest so that it didn't bother me anymore, sugar. I'm sorry for what happened back there, and I don't know what came over me."

I took my hand and started to run it up and down Whiskey's arm slowly, making sure he was comforted. "Why are you apologizing?"

He glanced over at me. "Because it threw you off-guard, and you probably felt uncomfortable with it," he answered.

"Why are you apologizing for something that I was okay with you doing?" I questioned.

"Because you didn't specifically ask for it, and I just feel like—"

"Ah, ah, ah, ah. Back up the train there, cowboy," I interrupted, putting my finger over his lips to shut him up. "You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. And if you ever apologize for somethin' like that again, I swear to fucking Christ that I'll smack the shit out of you. So hard that whatever got into ya will fly right out. You hear me?"

I guess Whiskey was afraid of me in that hot minute because his eyes widened after hearing me say such a thing. Apparently, it's one of the darkest threats that I said toward Whiskey. Of course, I didn't mean to hurt him, but he was definitely shaken by the fact that I have a dark side. A morbidly, gory dark side.