Pot of Gold
by Kira

Life is like a box of chocolates.  You spend ages trying to find the little map thingy that lets you know what's in each one, and then by the time you've got the map and made your choice, everyone else has taken theirs, leaving you with one.  And odds are that the one left is the weird orange cream one.  You know, the overly sweet one that everyone avoids.

Life is like that in a way.  You go looking about, trying to decide who you want to be with, looking for the right characteristics and then, before you know it, all your friends are married, in relations, procreating like gerbils and there's no one left.

And that's my problem.  There is nothing more depressing than being the best man at a wedding for the seventh time in as many months.  And here I am, standing holding someone else's damn ring, listening to someone else declare eternal love, choking on a tie in a penguin suit.  Great, Sandburg.  Just great.

It's not often you realize that all you want to do is finally settle down.  I mean, Jim pretty well nailed it when he called me a dog that would jump a table leg.  I mean, I love women.  Women are like chocolates, all sweet and sugary and gooey and man, let's just say, sex is pretty high on my priority list.  But then, like now, standing there holding someone else's ring, listening to them say 'I do, forever' makes me really think that there's something wrong my priorities.  And suddenly, having 'forever' with someone is starting to look more important.

I hand over the ring during my two seconds of fame and step back so that the groom can kiss his wife.  Married.  Forever.  God, I'm depressed now.

By the time I get home, Jim's already gone to bed, but he's left a little note on the table.

Made you a salad.  It's in the fridge.  Vinaigrette dressing in the jar.  Don't stay up too late grading.

Wasn't that sweet?  I eat the salad, with its tomatoes and cucumbers diced with Sentinel accuracy into cubes.  And when I say cubes, I mean freaking cubes.  Probably perfectly symmetrical.  I take a quick shower, wrapping a towel around my waist for the trip to my room.  I try to tread softly, knowing that it probably won't do any good but it's the thought that counts, right?

I hear a moan from  upstairs and am torn.  Is he hurt? Is he zoned?  Does he need me?

"blair..." The groan clinches it.  I dash upstairs expecting to see a injured or zoned Sentinel,  but stop dead at the landing.  Jim is sprawled on his back, deep in sleep with the covers thrown off.  His hand however is fisted around an erection that is quite impressively tenting his boxers.  I watch stunned as he slowly pumps his cock, thrusting unconsciously with his hips...moaning my name in his dream.  He tenses and comes...and I sink onto the floor amazed.  I can't believe that Jim was jerking off and calling *my* name.    Jim sighs and rolls over, snuggling deeper in to his pillow.

Rallying my strength, I go back downstairs, very aware of the telephone pole under my towel.  There had been something so primal about what I had just seen.  And I couldn't deny my reaction to Jim's body as I watched him.

So...I guess  I want Jim.   And he apparently wants me.  Okay then.  We're over the first hump already.  Mutual attraction is good.  Now I just have to get him to watch me.  Piece of cake.  I am The Guide after all.  In fact, tomorrow I'm most definitely not going to turn on the white noise generator before I do *my* daily hand exercises.

So life is like a box of chocolates that everyone else got to first, and suddenly you're faced with only the orange creams.  And then you see, you realize that hey, maybe those orange creams aren't so bad.  Just because something might be the last choice...doesn't mean it's the bad choice.  And sometimes, something being sweet is just that.  Sweet.  In fact, I think I happen to love the orange creams.  Inside and out.