Black Horse (John Seed x Reader)

chapter twenty four

Turning the knife side to side, you watched as the steel of the blade reflected a beam on to the ceiling of John's bedroom from the morning sunlight. It was the pocket knife that the man always kept in his shirt pocket, the one you stole from him the day you escaped the bunker.

"May 3rd, 2007," the Baptist states, sliding his leather belt through his jean's loops to buckle it. You furrowed your brow, sitting up on the bed to peer at him in question, "What?" You were adorned in one of John's old t-shirts, and you crossed your legs underneath you as you tilted your head.

"The day I graduated college," he raised his gaze to smile at you, pointing a finger towards the blade in your hand, "The day I got that knife." You perked up at the sound of that, your thumb rubbing against the intricate design of the almost antique pocket knife, "How'd you get it?"

"My father handed it to me right after I received my diploma with the widest grin on his face," the Inquisitor slipped his silk dress shirt over his shoulders, pausing to hold his hands in the air with his palms facing you, "He said to me, 'John, no matter how high you climb up the ladder, there's always a way to fall back down. Let this knife remind you of how easily someone can stab you in the back and to always be sure of your footing.'"

Your face fell at the mention of John's father, a certain flash of anger sparking through your body towards the deceased man. Even though the Baptist talked about him with a cheerful tone, you still couldn't help but see the hint of pain in his eyes. It made you want to dig up Mr. Duncan's grave and piss on his corpse... You wondered why he even kept the damn knife.

John cleared his throat upon seeing your glum expression, resuming the process of buttoning his blue shirt, "...In other words, trust the right people." That's when you understood. It was his reminder. Another way to keep him on track and never lose focus of what really matters. Who really matters.

You peered down at the knife with a whole new meaning, one that turned from rage to sudden pride. "Keep it," the man spoke, making your head snap up to see his blue eyes analyzing you. You shook your head, dumbfounded, "No, I... I can't take this, John."

"Of course you can," he beams, tucking in his shirt and nodding towards the special blade, "I want you to have it." You place the knife down softly on the bed, refusing once again, "That's sweet of you, but no."

"Come on, sweetheart," he sings with a roll of his eyes, "Don't make me beg." You began fiddling with your thumbs, your hands hidden in your lap sheepishly. You peered at the pocket knife, the blade still managing to catch a ray of sunshine and shimmer almost mesmerizingly.

"This knife has helped me through a lot of... tough situations. Helped me make the right decisions," John reaches for the blade and twirls it between his fingers, smiling down at it softly, "Maybe it'll help you." Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, your hands wrapping gently around his and closing his fingers against the cold metal, "I can't take something that's so special... It belongs with you, John."

There's a short moment when an expression of hurt crosses his face, but it's quickly replaced with a shrug, "I guess you have a point." He drops the knife into his shirt pocket, patting it twice before turning around to his closet.

As he swipes through his hangers to find a neat and pressed vest, he notices a quick and bright flash from one of his wardrobe pieces. His eyebrows knit in confusion, stopping to investigate the waistcoat. A bracelet hung from one of the buttons of his vest, and his lungs constricted as he realized who it belonged to.

Holly.

It was one of the gifts she had mentioned her late husband giving her for their anniversary. Or maybe it was her birthday... He wasn't paying attention, really. His mind was always focused on one thing only when Holly was in his company. The delicate piece of jewelry must have fallen off of her wrist when she was unbuttoning his waistcoat.