Methos watched Duncan MacLeod's shoulders droop slightly as he closed the door of the barge behind them. Stepping down from the doorway, he added a log to the banked fireplace as Duncan hung their coats on the hooks. Stowing his Ivanhoe behind the couch, he saw Duncan tuck the katana next to the bed. Reassured of protection at both ends of the barge, his shoulders relaxed marginally too.

"Lovely wedding, wouldn't you say?" Methos snorted hearing the words.

"Yes, truly lovely, MacLeod. Even more so because I was actually alive to attend it, no thanks to you I might add."

"Methos, come on, it wasn't <i>that</i> bad." MacLeod turned soulful eyes toward Methos. "And I think I more than made up for it."

The silence stretched to the limits of comfort as the oldest living immortal ignored his companion. When it seemed that MacLeod was about to speak, Methos interrupted him smoothly. "You would think so. I, however, am uncertain how offering me a place to stay makes up for almost getting my head taken. Particularly since you already owed me the barge."

"What? Didn't we settle that?" Methos watched MacLeod move through the small sitting area toward the galley. "Drink?"

"No, thanks, I've had enough."

The two men settled on the couch, MacLeod nursing a small scotch, Methos fiddling with his cufflinks. "The ceremony was quite nice, wasn't it?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes, touching in its simplicity, somehow avoiding all the saccharine sweetness of the common, modern wedding." Methos loosened his tie. "Can't imagine why they call these 'barbaric devices', we barbarians never wore the bloody things."

The two men settled into the couch, unconsciously mirroring the poses of a few days earlier. The silence stretched again, but it remained comfortable.

"It wasn't really that bad for you, was it?" At Methos' questioning look, he continued, "The wedding, I mean. I'm aware that the … rest of it was –"

"Fret not, MacLeod," Methos said, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling of the barge. "I've been to many a wedding, and this was one of the nicer ones. If I'm honest, and you know I always am, it was nicer than some of <i>my</i> weddings."

"Problems with Bride 35?" MacLeod asked archly.

"I do believe numbers 17 and 56 were the worst." Methos grinned at MacLeod and rose. "Well, it's been a long day, I'm off to bed."

MacLeod surged to his feet. "Methos, you can't just leave it like that. What was so memorable about numbers 17 and 56? Don't leave me hanging here."

Strolling toward the bed, Methos let his suit jacket drop from his hand. He knew it wouldn't stay on the floor long. Right on schedule, MacLeod stooped to pick it up and hang it over a chair back. The tie was next, and it was faithfully deposited over the rail that separated the room. By the time Methos reached the bed he was pulling his belt through the loops and MacLeod was successfully distracted. Shedding the rest of their clothes, the men settled into the big bed.

"Did you enjoy being married?" MacLeod's quiet question drifted out of the fire lit darkness.

"Enough to do it 68 times." The reply lacked the mocking tone that Methos often affected with MacLeod.

"Would you do it again?" Methos heard the words, both those said and those unsaid.

"With the right person? Definitely." Leaning forward, Methos pressed his lips to a bare shoulder while his arm snaked around MacLeod's waist.

"Maybe, in 100 years, at their next ceremony …" The words tailed off.

"I'd like that, MacLeod."