Happy Birthday

On these occasions, Osbourne noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in Father Anderson’s eyes, that he might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion. No, instead it was the brilliance of Jesus Christ that arrested him, Anderson would say cheekily. The Father was kneeled before a wooden cross in his sparse quarters, head tucked down, emphasizing his almost comically bulging double chin. A man of routine, the Father recited the same prayers daily just under his perpetual labored breaths.

The friary was quiet this time of morning. Granted, it was quiet here most times of the day unless the other priests and him had it in them for a round of Scrabble over in the common area. Then the entire apartments would descend into a frenzy of dejected groans and 'ah-ha's. As much as they loved their silence and quiet ponderings, they weren't afraid to have a good time. 

Osbourne checked his watch, knowing his sister, Claudia, would be waiting for him outside by now. In all the years they’d been partners in vampire hunting, she’d always been the more meticulous of the two. Not to say he wasn’t thorough in his own right, but Claudia hated anything even slightly out of order and not going according to her plan A, B, or C. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to avoid her wrath, but he wouldn’t rush Anderson’s morning prayer.

The man liked to say he was in his golden years, if one could consider pushing into your mid 70’s golden. He insisted there was merit to growing older and wiser, but Osbourne had seen 50 birthdays come and go and often felt just as lost as when he was a boy. He’d found purpose in the church, in the Society of Leopold, but the sting of the loss of his parents still felt fresh some days no matter how many decades had passed.

Mumbling on, Anderson cocked his head to the side, peeking with one eye at Osbourne in the doorway with a crooked grin before returning his attention to his prayers. The man of routine waited for Osbourne to show up every morning for something or other. Usually, they would have breakfast together before service, but Claudia would have his hide if he meandered too long today, so they’d have to take a raincheck on that one. Regardless, it was a special day, and he’d make time for his dear friend, the man that looked after him when he was still so small and afraid after losing everything.

The Father's knees creaked as he began lifting himself from the ground, one hand supported by his dresser, his face twisted up with his efforts. Osbourne stood in the doorway, leaned against the frame thinking, surely, their Lord would want the old man to spare his knees. 

"Need any help?" he asked, watching Father Anderson wave a dismissive hand at him. 

"Grant me this, Ozzy. I'm an old man, but I'm not that old."

Unimpressed, the other priest huffed a laugh, polished shoes tapping on the groaning old floorboards as he strolled over to the stubborn man. He held a hand out, their eyes meeting in silent argument before the Father conceded, clasping the helping hand and lifting himself to his feet with some effort. 

"Trust me, you are that old. And I'm old. We're all old and stuffy here. It comes with the territory," said Osbourne.

“Speak for yourself.” Anderson smiled, poking his head around the bend of the doorway. "Don't let your sister hear you say that. She’ll be here any minute, won’t she?" 

Osbourne adjusted the sizable bag on his shoulder, nodding.  Really, she wasn't supposed to come onto this side of the grounds, but she didn't care much for the rules. She especially didn't care when they were late for a hunt. 

Besides, the priests had a soft spot for her. 

"I was willing to brave her anger to give this to you," Osbourne said, reaching into his gun bag. Out came a trio of golden roses. The paper around them crinkled as he held them up proudly. He raised his other hand, wiggling his fingers. Band-aids wrapped around a few of his spindly digits where the roses’ thorns had plucked him while he was pruning them.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,” he said. All together, they both continued, “John 15:13.”

Father Anderson laughed joyously. "Well, I appreciate your sacrifice! Never would I underestimate the dangers of horticulture.” Gently, he took the roses and admired them.

“Happy birthday,” said Osbourne. “Although, when I get back I’ll have to show you how to take care of them.”

“Oh, don’t insult me. I know what I’m doing,” Anderson muttered as he pulled a vase from his closet—the same one he always used when Osbourne gifted him a flower that inevitably met a swift death.

The protest on Osbourne’s tongue died when his sister’s voice echoed through the halls.

Anderson raised his arms up in surrender. “It seems like I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Osbourne hefted his bag into a more comfortable position and shrugged. “You know how she can get.”

Claudia’s voice rang out again, closer this time.

“Go on, then. Don’t keep her waiting,” Father Anderson said, patting Osbourne’s shoulder. “And thanks for the gift. It’s lovely.”

With one last smile, Osbourne stepped out of the room and into the jaws of his sister.