Hollow Years

He was broken by a divine wager.

She was shattered by a life that never gave her a choice.

In the shadows of 1970s Chicago, they find each other... and the only kind of love that can overcome the ruin wrought by malignant cruelty: one born of shared trauma.

Paul Diluan has spent decades trudging through a life defined by tragedy, with every heartbreak serving to reinforce his perception that it was his destiny to suffer at the hands of the one who swore to love, honor and cherish him until death parted them. Then he learns the truth: that his suffering was orchestrated by a rogue celestial being as part of a wager to test his nobility.

Now Paul represents something of a conundrum for the powers that be that are not accustomed to issuing apologies. The decision is made to give Paul a fresh start; returning him to a time when he was first denied salvation. He's given an unfamiliar body, a new name, and a divine mission: seek out others like himself, people who lost hope long ago, and to give them another chance at happiness.

Haunted by trauma and drawn to a beautiful woman whose pain mirrors his own, Paul must discover whether redemption is truly possible... or if he is indeed damned to remain broken.

Author's Note: This is a standalone novel set in the Good Guy shared universe. It blends supernatural intrigue with emotional realism and explores themes of trauma, honor, and love.

Content warnings: on-page violence, psychological trauma, depression, and suicidal ideation.

All sensuality occurs between characters aged 18 or older.

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Prelude

"Your Holiness?" a tentative voice asked with a palpable tremor of fear.

"Yes?" Michael grunted without looking up. "What is it?"

"The one you summoned has arrived."

Michael absentmindedly looked up from the task which had been frustrating him to no end, and glared at the figure cowering before him for a long moment before saying, "What took so long?"

"Pardon?"

Michael sighed wearily and made a 'come on' gesture. "Never mind. Let's get this over with."

As he waited, Michael reviewed all of the regrettable events which had led to this juncture. He felt a twinge of the expected discomfort as several proscribed, but very accurate, colorful metaphors flitted through his mind. Throughout his long existence, Michael could remember very few thornier situations to ever require his attention. He became aware of another presence approaching and did his best to compose his features, although he found it much harder than usual to calm his mind.

"You summoned me, your Holiness?" the newcomer drawled.

"What name do you prefer this aeon, old friend?"

His visitor smiled. "I've recently been rather fond of Sam."

"Indeed?" Michael replied with a wry grin as he took in the coalescing form of his guest. Receiving visitors was something of an adventure for Michael, as his minions were given significant latitude in both their appearance and their demeanor. From a certain point of view, Michael's organization could be called the original 'just do your job' shop. Except of course his collective predated the concepts of either jobs, or shops.

The creature before him presented as human, and he would certainly appear as such to the denizens of the planet commonly referred to as Earth, with an apparent age residing somewhere between 'wizened' and 'senile'. He had unkempt white hair which blended seamlessly with his halo. He also sported a bushy white mustache which highlighted his craggily face. He wore a white linen three-piece suit and carried an ornate cane with a beautifully carved wooden phoenix as its handle. The primary thing which distinguished him from human, other than the aforementioned cranial adornment, was Sam's piercing blue eyes.

Michael smiled. "You look quite a bit like your namesake. I'd be curious to get you two together and see what he thinks."

"I can assure you he was quite tickled. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say: tickled, for him."

"He always was a rather ornery cuss. Walk with me," Michael said almost distractedly before winking out of the where/when he typically used as his office. He materialized in a darkened hallway with a polished marble floor and set off in a southerly direction.

Sam appeared at his side and matched his stride easily, the click of his cane echoing off the lavishly decorated walls. He contented himself with taking in the priceless artwork surrounding them, as he knew well his boss's temperament, and had immediately recognized his dour mood.

Michael led them almost aimlessly until they entered one of the many halls filled with antiquities associated with the groups referred to in the twenty-first century as Vikings, but who were in fact from hundreds of tribes hailing from the countries bordering the North Sea. He stopped before an intricate lemniscate carved from hardwood. The piece, which a trick of craftsmanship made it difficult to initially distinguish whether it was an ornate 'S' or figure of eight, would likely be mistaken for an ouroboros by an educated visitor (were this particular museum open to any but English royalty).

"What a miserable prick," Michael seethed.

Sam chuckled. "Been holding that in long?"

Michael groaned wearily, casting his eyes briefly upward before replying. "If any of those fawning acolytes ever heard me talk like that, they'd likely discorporate."

"Or dash off to report you to a higher authority."

"Like that would help."

Sam snickered. "Perhaps you should give it a try. If only to watch from a distance as Yahweh reminded them that he, quite literally, invented swearing."

"Like he'd ever give me the satisfaction. That obstinate bastard would act shocked and promise to bring me before a board of inquiry. After the last few aeons, I think I'd welcome the change."

"Which brings us to why you summoned me." Sam glanced around before adding, "Not that I don't enjoy spending a few moments with an old friend."

"Our favorite pain in my ass has struck again."

"Nick?"

"No," Michael retorted dismissively. "Rules are rules, after all. His banishment precludes him from direct interference with our charges. In any case, that would have almost certainly been far more entertaining." He sighed again before muttering, "It's George."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. Damned fool let himself get suckered into another bet."

"I don't have to ask the entity with whom our foolish former comrade in arms was wagering," Sam observed darkly.

"Indeed."

"I was under the impression that wagers involving the testing of faith were proscribed following the incident with Job."

"They were. It seems our old nemesis found a loophole."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "And, it seems, a fool with whom to bet. I honestly don't understand the appeal. It's not like they're even wagering that much."

"The thrill of competition, I suppose."

"Perhaps you could recommend watching football to the pair of them."

"That's hardly an improvement. It is as though the gladiator's coliseum was resurrected."

"I meant the kind actually played with feet. We could even arrange something of a league."

Michael shrugged. "A tempting thought, but that does nothing for the matter at hand."

"So, what reprimand will that fool George face this time? It's almost as if his partner's true goal is to demonstrate the ineffectiveness of the censure system."

"You're more right than you know, old friend. I took it up with the Boss. It would seem that something of an example is being made of that pitiful bastard."

Sam took in Michael's tortured expression before reverently whispering, "Banishment?"

"Indeed. The boss said the dumb fuck is lucky it wasn't an outright smiting."

"If one could ask, what was the loophole?"

"Huh?" Michael grunted; his eyes still glued to the Norse sigil.

"If George wasn't wagering over faith, what was it?"

"Honor, for want of a better term."

"Hasn't enough blood been shed by those pitiful creatures in the name of that ridiculous concept?"

Michael shook his head morosely. "It's worse than that. The Boss surely would have slammed the door on this nonsense right away if this was another veiled excuse for pointless warmongering. Instead, our old nemesis came up with something on a much smaller scale. Fidelity."

"So, George picks some poor sap in a happy marriage and that piece of cockroach excrement throws a bunch of temptation at him in the guise of beautiful women?" Sam guessed. He then hastened to add, "Or men?"

"Not remotely. It was far more devious. This timehechose the victim, and he allowed George to attempt to lead him from the path. I think the Boss was at least as upset about the tactics our now former colleague used as he was with the fact that he made the bet in the first place. We're talking real Old Testament stuff."

"The Boss does hate competition," Sam allowed.

"Indeed. So, no more George. At least until a few millennia have passed and the Boss decides he's learned his lesson. Which means I need to divvy up his case load."

"Just add the new additions to my scroll and I'll check in on them as soon as we're done here."

"There's just one for you, old friend."

Sam stared at him for a long moment before sighing and saying, "Can anything be done?"

"Not yet. Technically, the wager is not yet ended, although George has already conceded. As a condition of not being similarly banished, ourfriendhas been informed that he will make certain allowances on the sentient's behalf, from his own stockpile."

"I can scarcely imagine how that prick must have wailed and moaned over that one."

"Quiet as a church mouse. He knows when to quit, unlike our dear departed comrade."

"These allowances... how much latitude am I to be given?"

"Let's not speak of another grokking. We were all extremely fortunate that turned out as well as it did."

"Indeed," Sam replied thoughtfully. "Do you know anything of the sentient in question?"

"Only what's in the case file. Truly a pitiful creature if ever there was one."

"Perhaps we would be best served by just resetting him now."

"The Boss has something along those lines in mind. And, as I said, the wager must be either won or lost before anything can be done. Take a look at him and do what you believe is best. I chose you for this assignment because you have better instincts than any other field agent. As much shit as I caught from the Boss about that grokking, there is no denying the results. I trust you to do what must be done to balance the scales."

"I appreciate your faith in me, your Holiness."

"Knock that shit off," Michael grunted. "At least when we're alone."

"One must show proper respect," Sam retorted with a twinkle in his eye. "Even though I knew you long before you earned the rank of Archangel."

"You'll join me sooner than you think, my friend. Then this kind of aggravating bullshit will beyourproblem."

Sam's eyes widened in response to his old friend's bombshell, but he had been in the business far too long to react otherwise. He said, "Unless I misunderstood you, you just made this, as you say, aggravating bullshit, my problem."

"You know what I mean," Michael huffed. "Look at it this way. Do a good job with this one and maybe the next time one of our old drinking buddies puts a foot wrong, you'll be in a position to delegate the clean-up rather than having to do all the dirty work."

"How long until the wager expires?"

"Ten and a half sextillion femtoseconds, give or take a few quintillion."

Sam sighed and shook his head wearily. "Ah, the true measure of having lost touch with our charges. Can you honestly not admit that it's far easier to just say four Earth months? It's even significantly fewer syllables."

"Whatever," Michael groaned. "All the details are in the case scroll. I recognize this is a shit assignment. But I have faith in you, old friend."

"I won't let you down, your Holiness," Sam promised gravely.

Michael smiled at the gentle rebuke. "I know. Good luck. And don't be a stranger."

Sam started to reply, only to realize that he was very much alone in the darkened museum. He chuckled wryly and said, "So that's what that feels like," before himself winking out of existence.

One

"He's off!" the delightfully British announcer shouted. "There's contact and the German is out of the Australian Grand Prix. This will have massive implications for the 1994 World Championship..."

"Hey Dad!" came a desperate shout from the other end of the house. "Mom needs you!"

Paul Diluan shot up from his chair and headed for the door at a brisk pace. He thundered down the stairs, the vibrations echoing throughout the house thanks to his not insubstantial bulk. Upon reaching the landing he paused and listened before hurrying in the direction of the master bedroom.

"What's wrong?" he gasped as he burst through the door.

Abigail, his wife of twenty-three years looked up from where she sat on the bedside commode and said, "Would you settle down? Jesus. You don't always have to be so melodramatic."

Paul came to a halt and took in the sight before him as he waited for his next instruction. The master suite in their home took up nearly half of the ground floor but was still filled to near-bursting with furniture and equipment. As he looked, his sixth sense issued an urgent warning. Just in time, he twisted his hips to avoid his wife's service dog from thwacking him in the testicles with his nose, by a comfortable margin the quadruped's favorite greeting.

He reached down to pet the eager rottweiler and whispered, "Hey girl."

"Can I get a little privacy?" Abigail asked tiredly.

Paul nodded wearily. "I'll wait outside."

"Can you take Darcy out while you're waiting?"

"Sure, hon," Paul murmured before clicking his tongue to lead the massive animal to the backdoor.

To the canine's massive delight, the neighbors had also decided to let their pair of dogs out, giving Darcy the chance to prove her bona fides as the neighborhood's loudest barker. Paul watched her with gritted teeth until she finally took a moment to relieve herself, whereupon he started the process of trying to entice her to return to the house. He scored his efforts as a six out of ten, only needing to walk halfway out into the yard and make the use of a treat and two toys to convince the irascible animal to abandon her exuberant barking.

"What was that all about?" Abigail muttered after Paul returned to the door to her room and was prompted to enter.

"The Jones's had the temerity to let their dogs out as well."

Abigail beckoned Darcy over and petted her lovingly before saying, "You're just trying to keep us safe, aren't you sweetheart."

"Don't encourage her," Paul muttered.

Abigail, who had moved from the bedside commode to her mobility scooter, ignored him and pointed at her shoes before saying, "Darcy, fetch!"

Darcy stared at her adoringly but made no move to pick up the shoes. Abigail repeated the command several times before looking expectantly toward Paul, who obligingly collected the shoes and then carefully slid them onto his wife's swollen feet. She graciously waited for him to move before motoring out into the main living area and heading for the kitchen. He helped her get into her chair at the table before getting some coffee started. He then gathered the requirements for her preferred breakfast from the fridge and pantry.

After delivering her coffee, he said, "Sleep well?"

"As good as could be expected," she replied wearily. "My back is killing me."

"I'm really sorry, hon."

"Not sorry enough to spring for the better mattress," she muttered.

"The guy at the store said we could return it for the more expensive model if you wanted. I can run it over there today and swap them out."

"What am I supposed to do if I have to lay down?"

"It would only take an hour or so. And you just got up."

"Just forget I said anything," she snapped as she scooped up the newspaper.

He returned to the cooktop and continued whisking the hollandaise while he fiddled with the other pans as needed. It was remarkable, he thought to himself, how quickly the impossible became routine. The first time Abigail had eaten eggs Benedict, she had fallen immediately in love. It had taken months of effort, and dozens of trips to the library to do painstaking research, but Paul had finally perfected both the recipe and the technique required to replicate the dish.

He set a plate in front of Abigail and sat beside her with his own cup of coffee. She glanced over and said, "Aren't you eating?"

"I'm good with coffee. What's on the schedule for today?"

"Obviously the house is appalling. Something must be done about it if you expect to allow guests inside next weekend."

"Cleaning ladies come Thursday. And Eric and I will get things picked up today."

"How do you intend to guarantee no one enters my room?"

"I'm replacing the doorknob with one that locks more securely. Then we'll just lock it and you and I can each carry a key."

She gave him a searing look. "I'm not being ridiculous, Paul. You know my bladder control is nearly nonexistent at this point. If I need to use the restroom, we must be able to ensure it won't be occupied."

"I wasn't judging, hon. We'll make sure both the bathroom and your room stay empty. Everything is taken care of. The party is going to be great."

"I was looking through my closet last night. It would seem that the outfit I intended to wear was improperly laundered. We'll need to go to the mall today to replace it."

"Fine," he replied with a noticeable pause. "Just let me know when you're ready to go."

"Nicole is coming over to join us. She and I were talking last night and, while she didn't come right out and say it, I feel certain she's ill prepared for her senior year. I promised we'd pick up some things for her as well."

"The more the merrier," he muttered resignedly.

"Don't be petulant. I suspect we'll have to leave her to her own devices in any case. You know how much the mall tires me out."

"So, what will that mean for Nicole?"

"I told her you'd lend her your credit card. She can just drop it by the house when she's done."

"Or after I report it stolen. Abigail, she'll ruin us."

"Would you settle down," Abigail snapped. She gestured to the expansive house around him and said, "It's not like we can't afford it. Just let me do something nice for our daughter occasionally. It's not like she's banging down our door to spend time with me when Idon'tbribe her."

"She's busy with school, hon."

"She's busy trying to forget her mother exists. Do you know how long it's been since she called me?"

"You said you talked last night."

Abigail sighed. "That's because I broke down and calledher. She hasn't picked up the phone and called me in nearly a year.A year!I suspect you hear from her far more frequently."

"Perhaps," Paul hedged. "But, more often than not, it's only because she wants something. I swear, that girl better find herself a husband who comes from money."

"How very enlightened of you," Abigail drawled. "Why are we spending all that money to send her to a fantastic college if she'll have to rely on amanfor everything."

"You know as well as I do that Nicole has no intention of working for a living. She's..." His voice trailed off as he realized what he had been about to say.

"She's what? Too much like her mother?"

"That's not what I said," he sighed.

"But that's what you meant," she snapped. She gestured at her scooter and added, "I didn't choose for this to happen to me. I had a career, Paul. And I was damned good at my job. We decided, together, that I would stay home and raise our children."