Author's Note: Sarah's last name, as you'll see, is a nod to another fictional character, a pastor by the name of David who lives in a sleepy little town, founded by wayward Norwegians in the 19th century, with which you may be familiar: Lake Wobegon.

Sarah was a Presbyterian and the service was, too. They went in the Mustang and walked in casually enough. An elderly woman at the door wearing a conservative, straight-black pantsuit welcomed Bob and Sarah, and even held the door open for them. Up the stairs and around the corner was an alcove dubiously named the Coat Check. It consisted of them hanging their coats on hangers among cedar dividers. Another turn around another corner and they were in what Sarah called the Library Lounge, just off the Sanctuary. A long table between two davenports held sleek aluminum carafes and stacks of Styrofoam cups. Bob look longingly at one, and then followed Sarah as she grabbed his hand, and led them to an indiscriminate row near the center of the Sanctuary.

The priest—or preacher or father or whatever they were calling him, Bob wasn't really sure, though everyone else seemed fine with "Dr Kent"—talked about likening faith and the Church to a game of hide and seek. About how, ready or not, God was coming. Or was already here.

Bob wasn't sure about that. Or any of it. It wasn't even a matter of atheism. He'd simply been…out of touch.

Please. Out of touch. Story of your life, Sentry.

The whole time, he kept his hand latched on top of Sarah's, fingers tightly grasping one another's. Maybe out of fear. He had been out of his element in that church, and knew it. And that was what made him withdraw into himself.

Thank God the voices hadn't started up.

(Yes. God.)

The service had taken all of forty minutes—short, Bob reasoned. But then, he'd never really done the Church thing before, so he supposed he didn't have much for comparison. He was always…busy.

And now, as they pulled back into Bob's driveway, exited the Mustang and Bob opened and closed Sarah's door as she got out, he kept going back to that 'too busy' bit. High School, such as it was to his memory, was a haze. But he knew all that. Lost in drugs and self-loathing and pointless little cries for help. And college, Empire State, kept him busy trying at first to woo Lindy away from Buzz and that goddamn letterman's jacket of his—

Bob sighed as he opened the front door for Sarah. She walked in and threw her overcoat on the bench by the stairs. Bob looked back out for a second before closing the front door. Snow was starting to fall, and already he imagined have to trudge through it. Hearing it crunch and collapse beneath his boots as he would dig the Mustang out from the mountainous blizzard he imagined was coming.

Sarah was already on her way upstairs to the bathroom, to freshen up she said.

Bob went to the den and sat on the edge of the coffee table. He flipped the TV on, and watched CNN on mute. He sucked the snot back into his sinuses with a quick inhalation, and looked out the window. The snowflakes were large and wet, and they'd probably turn the walkway to ice by midnight.

He slouched a bit, and thought about talking to God.

Wondered if he was even there. Or if he had ever been at some point before.

Bob's eyes narrowed at the idea. There was no way he could wax religious without looking like an idiot, and those days were behind him.

(I've never questioned you. I never really thought about it much, I guess, either. Whether you're up there or if you aren't. I never slowed down to think about these things. Now I suppose I have. I guess I have a reason to.)

He vaguely remembered something from some Empire State lecture, or something about Predestination and why it had pissed off so many people when Luther started talking about it.

(I know these things happen for a reason. I know that whatever happens, happens and that we're usually better people for it. It's not even a matter of faith in you, either. It's just something I've come to understand. That whatever we do, we do. And it has consequences. You don't punch someone in the face and have your hand feel okay afterwards. Things…happen. And we have to work with them, I guess.)

The snow kept falling. Out in the street Bob could see two boys running, one chasing after the other and throwing poorly-rotund snowballs every few seconds. They stopped for a moment in front of his living room bay window to gather their strength and make a few more snowballs, then kept running.

With unnaturally good timing, he felt a hand, warm and soft, slide across the back of his neck and massage his shoulder only once. Her hand squeezed and he threw one if his own up to grab it. Kept looking forward.

She smelled of freesias. And he could tell she was instantly at ease. Comfortable. She sat down on the coffee table's open spot behind him and wrapped both arms around him at elbow level, and rested her head against the curvature of his neck.

Softly, she said, "Are you alright?"

He smiled and let out a quick, amused, breath. "Yeah."

"You're tense," she corrected. "Again. I can feel it through that eighty dollar sweater."

His eyebrows flashed and he grumbled a bit under his breath. Turned slightly in place, still seated. "You're right." It was then that he noticed what she was wearing. A pink camisole and a flowing, matching, robe.

His brow furrowed and he found himself slightly uncomfortable.

Weak, Sentry.

His shoulders sunk at that.

Really weak. Take her upstairs and give her a ride on the old Bobcoaster and then dump her ass.

(It won't be that way.)

Then prove me wrong, and find out. Let her do what she wants. And then…suddenly. With the power of a million you-know-whats—

She leaned forward more and kissed him. It was deep and warm and wonderful, and he followed the clichés and ran his hand across her cheekbone and then through her hair. And let it happen.

She slid away a moment later, slowly, and cleared a wisp of hair from her face. She looked incredibly ethereal. Quiet. But secure.

She sensed his uneasiness. "Too strong?"

He narrowed his eyes and quickly returned the kiss with another. One of those deep and highly suspect ones where his arms wrapped around her almost completely and angled her back in a dancer's dip. He brought her up, and said, "Not even strong enough."

Then, Bob stood and grabbed her hand and she stood. And went with him upstairs.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

The master bedroom was cold. He'd opened the street-facing window earlier in the day—the radiator had been buggy all week and he had kept putting off looking at it. So the window was open, and the curtains were blowing imperceptibly in the midnight breeze, and the air was brisk, and he felt motivated by it. Energized.

He lay on his side staring out at the roof on the Healey's house. It shone in the clear moonlight. He took a deep breath and his eyes narrowed, tired, as he did. He was feeling contemplative, as was his wont, he supposed.

(At least it stopped snowing)

A corner of his mouth angled into a smile at that. Now it was just cold.

Not even cold, really. The weather gods had been fickle this week, and it had gone from snow to rain only to go back to snow. It was snowing when they came home, but had now stopped. The midnight clear was crisp, and Bob didn't feel so cold. He was okay with that.

He lay on his side, and his brow furrowed gently. He turned back halfly—Sarah was still asleep, curled up into herself, with a throw blanket barely covering her.

In the heat of the moment, she'd led him upstairs but he had to lead the rest of the way because she didn't know where the master bedroom was. Once they were in there, she retreated to the bathroom and came out a moment later, stark raving naked, and dropped her clothes by the bureau in a pile. Bob had been sitting on the edge of the bed with half an idea of what was about to happen, and when she strolled out looking perfectly natural with her naked beauty he only smiled.

And when she pushed him back and started pulling off the eighty dollar sweater and the Oxford underneath and the hundred dollar trousers and dress Doc Martens, he didn't mind.

There were things he didn't need to do, given the wide berth his powers and his stupid ingestion of the Professor's formula had given him in his other life. Eating was one. Sleep was another. Even getting dressed was a formality—he didn't do it because he was cold: he dressed because it was what normal people did. He ate because it was what normal people did. He'd even made love to Sarah because that's what normal people do.

Ever since college, you've wanted desperately to be one of those normal fuckers, haven't you, Sentry?

(You would know)

You know, you used to be a little more tolerable when you were unbalanced. Now you've got this retard…strength about you. It sickens me.

He took a deep breath again and threw his arms up and behind his head and didn't care that he must've looked supremely confident. He had a good night.

Yeah a good night. Took her to bed, and you've been seeing her for a month and you don't even know her last name. What does that tell your very small mind and its very limited thought process. Maybe you should ask yourself what else you don't know about your little chickadee.

(Huh)

Yeah. Let's discuss later the ways in which you can owe me.

Gently, he slid out of bed, the cold still biting at him for every inch, and went to the bureau. He looked back at her, and then felt for her wallet among the pile of her clothes. Past the bra and panties, both black, at which he cocked a Puritanical eyebrow, and the white-button down, he found it. He stood and his back was at pains to do so, and he slid into the bathroom, switching on the light and closing the door in the same quiet and ginger motion.

He bent over the sink slightly and opened it. A licence with her picture, in which she looked silly and beautiful, stared back at him. Her name was Sarah Ingvist. She was 5'10, one-sixty-five, and the only restriction was for corrective lenses. The address of residence had her living on a five-digited boulevard in Venice, California.

The row of cards, filed atop each other went to the tune of a library card, a Borders Rewards Card, a Kroger Plus Card, and the three major credit cards, all gold.

His eyes narrowed at this, and he let out a quiet sigh. He put the picture back in its place and pulled the door open a centimeter. She was still sleeping, but now on her back: the throw blanket covered only her from the navel down to the knees. He frowned and looked back at the wallet.

Then he shuffled it back amongst her things, shut the window and lay back in bed. He laid there quietly for another hour before she started stirring. She looked out the window and wiped her face with one hand and said a bleary 'hello' to him. He smiled back, and she nuzzled closer to him. He looked over her head—the alarm clock was on her side of the bed, and the glowing red display read 3.30—and then into her eyes.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

"Fine." She kissed him once on the lips and settled against his chest and waited for the warmth to transfer over. He breathed heavily once.

"Where's Venice?" Of course, asking had meant he'd gone rooting through her things. He pushed forward anyway, better to be assertive, he reasoned.

"Huh?"

"California," he supplied.

She frowned slowly, and then said, "Oh. You know Long Beach? LA?"

"Sure."

"Thereabouts. Why?"

"I was just curious."

"Oh," she said. "What, you went through my dirty laundry?" She started tracing circles on his rising and falling abdomen.

"Yes," he said and instantly regretted it. "I…Sorry."

"It's fine," she said and took a deep breath. "S'not like I'm a secret agent."

He smiled halfly. "Yeah."

"Why do you ask?" She was starting to sound more awake.

"Because you never told me."

She cocked her head and her eyes widened as if to say, 'well that's true, Mister Weisenheimer.'

"Alright," she said. "I was a writer. You know, a writer. Television and all that."

Bob shrugged as much as he could with his back against the headboard. She kept going.

"Y'ever see Law and Order?" Bob nodded. "Yeah, that was me, since the eighth season, which incidentally is when Variety said the show started to go up in quality."

Bob thought about it for a moment.

"Anyway," she said. "When the writers went on strike I decided I'd had enough. The job was fine and I was doing good things and I met some really remarkable people there. I met Teri Hatcher at a party and we played racquetball after Halloween. This was before the strike, but you get my point?" Bob nodded. "Yeah. I was tired of the bullshit, though, and there was a lot of it to be had there. I don't know about you but I'm from a sleepy little nowhere town, and LA was just a little too vibrant for me. Everyone coming and going and I didn't know up from brown.

Bob was puzzled at the non sequitur but let it slide.

"I started seeing one of the other writers on the show, a little wiener named Bryan, which is why I cringed at that waiter at the restaurant that night, and we dated for a long time. I had been in LA since my 25th birthday, and I'm thirty-two now, and all of those years I spent with him. He was lazy, in a word. I met him through a friend, one summer when I was doing an internship at Cornell. He was smart then. Cute. Very brilliant. Creative Writing, the whole bit. Went to writer's workshop after writer's workshop, which after junior year became an excuse for him to talk about liberalism, the lost generation and the wonders of LSD." She said, sadder, and looked at the ceiling: "He took the job at CBS and never stopped talking about how the real ideas and freedom were in novels. How television was dying. I think he thought he was Steinbeck's reincarnation."

"You're joking."

"Actually, a little bit," she said. "He started to get lazy. CBS hired him on and the JAG ratings went up. He was gifted, everyone knew it, and he knew how to play himself up. But he was an angry little bastard and he didn't like it when somebody proved him wrong. I followed him out to California a year later, and got my own spot working the NBC office out there. We'd go out to dinner at these great places with these great people, and all he would do is bitch about the bill or how underdone the steak was. Sure the sex was fine—"

Bob rolled his eyes and thought that inappropriate to mention. He let the stream of consciousness go. It was educational.

"—But I think I hated him just the same. Near the end we just stopped talking to each other when it became clear the fire was going out. He came onto Law and Order, and we started to put our problems into the show, that's when the ratings took off. So I was glad that somebody was getting entertainment. To make up for another nasty fight, Bryan came home with an engagement ring about three sizes too big. I asked him where he got it, he said from his friend Yoki, some Japanese sushi-chef." Pause. "I cut him off so easily after that." Pause. "I think I was ready to, anyway. And leaving LA was…a little too easy, too. I enjoyed it, but it was regretful that I left as fast as I did. Deciding to leave…that was easy." Pause. "I guess I'm not used to having it easy." Pause. She said, more quietly, more forlorn, and trailed off, "So…"

Quickly and stupidly, Bob slid one hand around her head and went in for a deep and passionate kiss, the kind they only write about, the kind that exists only in 'The Princess Bride' or some Nicholas Sparks novel about love being a many splendored thing.

He pulled away slowly, and felt his heart pounding in his chest for the first time in years. He hadn't been this energized since he punched out Dr Doom, since he ran the Super-Skrull through with a lamppost and tossed him in the East River.

He noticed a tear at the edge of Sarah's eye, and wiped it away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," he offered, meager.

"It's okay. I should have told you." She sniffled once and looked out the window, and pulled the blanket up to cover her exposed breasts. Bob sidled up next to her and stretched his arm around her, in the open space between her neck and the headboard.

"I, uh, I don't know what to say."

"Nothing to say," she said. "Story of my life."

He paused, and then asked, "How did you end up at Panera?"

She smiled and pushed out a breath that sounded like a laugh. "They needed managers, and my résumé was impressive, I guess."

Bob cocked his head thoughtfully, amused, at that. An accomplished lady. And she gave it up, same as he did, because she hated what her life had become.

He thought of the Church service.

Providence, Dr Kent called it. Godly providence.

And then he heard someone somewhere. Distant.

She rolled over and got comfortable, and Bob let his arm rest under her and his other over her shoulders. His eyes were leaden and slowly closed. And he swore he heard someone somewhere. A cold and distant voice giving a cold and distant warning.

I love you, Golden Guardian. I swear I do.

Continued...