Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod struggled to consciousness, aware of the sound of Joe moving about in the room next door and the most horrible taste in his mouth he'd ever experienced. He lay there, staring at the ceiling for a moment, rolling his sticky tongue around his equally tacky mouth, cataloguing the aftertaste. The roof of his mouth, his gums and even his fur-lined teeth all appeared to be permeated with an odd tang, which seemed to him a combination of chocolate, something very sweet, and a hint of something smoky and somewhat herbal all at the same time. Furrowing his brow, he wondered what on earth he'd put in his mouth last night.

Turning his head so he could see the nightstand clock, he was surprised to find his hair sticking to the pillow case for some reason. Bringing his hand up, he discovered a gummy substance mashed in his tangled hair. What the hell? Was it gum? How in the name of Bonny Prince Charlie did he get gum in his hair? Wincing as he pulled a small amount of the gunk, along with several hairs, off his head, he brought his hand up to his face to see what it was. Nope, not gum; this stuff was white. White? Huh, where did this mysterious white matter come from, and, more importantly, how did he get it in his hair? He couldn't think of anything it could be or where he'd managed to... Methos!

The previous night's escapades came crashing back to his waking mind and he cursed the little fuck. Groaning in dismay, Mac threw his arm over his eyes. Rotting oyster, puking Watchers and Immortal students, marijuana, LOTS of marijuana, smores, and, finally, butt-ugly haberdashery rejects from the store that time forgot. Moaning in dismay, he rolled out of bed and fished out his suitcase to change into some clean clothes -- then he'd see how bad the damage to his hair was and try and salvage it as best he could, then he'd go and wring Methos' scrawny neck for ever convincing him to do half the shit they had done last night -- then maybe he'd have a light breakfast and catch a show.

Once satisfied with his appearance, Mac opened the door to his room and stepped out, only to miss squashing a prone body by a fraction of an inch. Methos lay on the floor, loosely curled on his right side, Mac's newly acquired coat jammed under the Immortal's head along with said Immortal's forearm. Looking up, he saw Joe sitting on the couch with a wry look on his face.

"I tried waking him up but all I got was some mumbling in a language I've never heard and what I think was a rude gesture," the Watcher informed Mac.

Nodding his head, a wicked gleam in his eye, Mac moved his foot to the sleeping Immortal's back and nudged gently. "Methos," he sing-songed. No response. He shoved again, a little harder this time. "Methos, come on, time to get up." This time, the ancient did respond but only with an uncoordinated swipe at the offending limb assaulting his back and a burrowing of his head further into his coat-covered arm. Sighing heavily, Mac moved away, deciding to leave the old guy alone -- for now. "I don't know how he's survived this long if he's this hard to wake up," he commented to Joe.

"Yeah, well, you guys had a busy night. I think he's more unconscious than asleep," Dawson replied with a shake of his head.

"Don't remind me."

Cocking his head, the Watcher studied the Immortal before him intently. "Mac and Methos daub the town red. Really Mac, what were you thinking?"

"Don't know. It all seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, I wasn't the only one," he pointed out.

Joe chuckled. "Don't tell me you've taken Methos as a role model! I don't think the universe could handle two of you."

Chuckling, MacLeod shook his head at the thought, picturing them both in matching outfits, only to be interrupted by the presence of another Immortal. Before he could inform Joe of the impending arrival, a weak and sleep-heavy voice filtered up from the floor.

"Could you get the door, MacLeod?"

Startled, Joe looked to Mac questioningly, only to receive a dismissive wave of his hand as the Immortal moved to open the door to their suite. Swinging it open suddenly, he was greeted with one Richie Ryan, hand raised, ready to knock.

"Jeez, Mac! Give a guy some warning next time!" the young man exclaimed, jumping slightly, hand over his heart.

"Sorry, Rich," Mac apologized, moving back to allow the other man entry.

Strolling in and only casting a cursory glance at the Immortal on the floor, Ryan rubbed his stomach with both hands and let out a deep breath. "So, we going to get some food or what?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me," Joe agreed as he rose from his seat. "Mac?"

Looking uncertainly towards Methos, Mac was trying to make up his mind. He had planned on strangling the Old Man before breakfast...but he was flexible. "Sure, lets get out of here and leave Rip Van Winkle alone."

As the trio moved to the door, the curled form on the floor said in a slurred voice, "Bring me back a croissant or something." Then turned over and settled back down in almost the exact same position. Three mouths bit back three equally vulgar and imaginative retorts and closed the door, more loudly than necessary.

Two cups of strong coffee and a bowl of peaches and cream later, MacLeod sneaked into his hotel suite, half expecting to find Methos still asleep on the floor. Amazingly enough, only his ratty coat was left ON the floor while the Immortal in question was sitting IN the floor, so to speak. There in the bubbling jacuzzi, a blissful expression on his face, was Methos. Not only did he have the aforementioned heavenly expression on his face but also a pair of outrageous rhinestone-studded shades, most likely stolen from Sir Elton John's closet, and his brand spanking new, second hand, blue cowboy hat on his head, tilted slightly forward. Raising his hand, which was incidentally holding a champaign flute between thumb and index finger, towards him the Immortal grinned.

"Cheers, MacLeod!"

"Methos!" Mac moved further into the room and took a seat on the couch. "Champaign?" He raised an eyebrow.

The older Immortal snorted and his smile transformed itself into a quasi-sneer. "Hardly. It's beer. I'm not one for extravagance, Mac," he said with a straight face as he settled himself further into the tub and leaned back, his hat tilting further over his eyes and pushing the glasses down his nose.

"Where'd you get the shades?"

"Under your bed. I saw them there when I was on the floor. So, where are Joe and Ryan?"

"They decided to go see a show. It was a toss up between Cirque Du Soleil and Sigfreid and Roy."

"Well you know what they say, you can't get any better than gay Germans and circus animals. You didn't want to go?"

"Nah, I thought maybe you and I could go and try our luck in the casino. Recoup the money we spent on this trip. Well, the money I spent on this trip anyway." After a pause and a long look in Methos' direction, he added, "Anything you win we split sixty-forty."

"Forty for you, sixty for me, great!" Methos whooped, sitting back up and reaching for a nearby towel, a cocky grin spread across his face. "Deal me up, Scotty!"

Rubbing a hand over his eyes the Highlander groaned in disgust.

Methos looked patiently at Mac. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Turn around."

"Why?"

Methos gave him one of his 'Helloooooo' looks and limply gestured toward his lap.

"Oh."

Looking two slot machines to his right at the beaming, hunchbacked old woman catching the avalanche of clattering coins pouring out of her unit, Methos scowled and turned to the smiling Highlander directly to his left. Once he had dried off and dressed, the two Immortals had strolled down to the casino for a few different games of chance. They played a few hands of blackjack and busted. Mac tried his luck at craps - snake-eyes. Roulette - the ball had actually taken a crazy bounce out of the wheel and onto the floor. Finally, when they settled on plain old one-armed bandits, Methos had sauntered up to a machine he had a good feeling about at the same time as some old biddy. He'd actually let MacLeod's disapproving look sway him into letting the crone have the machine. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Never let MacLeod's scruples interfere with 'a feeling'. That was the rule!

"Next time I want to wrestle something from the clutching, grasping, gnarled fingers of the world's senior citizens, MacLeod, let me," the Immortal dead-panned.

"I hate to inform you, Old Man, but you are one of the world's most senior citizens. In fact, you are the world's seniorest citizen!"

Methos scoffed. "Yeah, but I've aged gracefully, i.e., not at all."

Fishing another large coin out of his bucket, which was more of a giant fast food drink container if you asked him, he slipped the money into the slot and pulled down on the lever. Come on Mama, five-thousand-year old man needs a new first edition Dickens! Round and round she goes and where she stops...bar, bar, yes, yes...lemon, nooooo. Closing his eyes and looking up towards the mirrored ceiling, Methos heaved a great sigh. Thank Providence most of the funds had come from MacLeod's pocket. Opening his eyes, he noticed a small cluster of casino security guards huddled together and casting quick glances in their direction. He wrinkled his brow, puzzled by this unwarranted attention. Uh-oh! He hoped he hadn't been seen stealing those oysters yesterday! The guards finally broke from their little congregation and spread out a bit, moving towards the two Immortals. Pretending to be engrossed with sifting through his soft drink container of money, Methos kept his face down. The guards stopped behind them and completely ignored him, instead tapping MacLeod on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Excuse me, Sir, we would like you to come with us," one of them addressed the Scotsman.

"Is there a problem?" Duncan asked, confused.

"Not if you come with us."

Backing away slightly, not really knowing what any of this was about, Methos felt the presence of another Immortal wash through him. Looking about quickly, he caught sight of a sharply dressed man standing off to the side, watching the scene unfolding before him with interest. Cursing under his breath and realizing they were in some serious trouble, the Immortal decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. God how he hated improvising! Things just never turned out exactly as planned.

Turning back to the security guards, who were reaching out to grab MacLeod by the arm, the ancient did the first thing that sprang to mind -- he threw his bucket of coins at them! A shower of silver discs assaulted the stunned guards and with their attention elsewhere, Methos grabbed an equally astonished MacLeod by the arm and dragged him through the rows of slack-jawed gamblers.

"What are you doing?" Duncan yelled, pulling himself out of Methos' grasp.

"There was an Immortal back there. I don't think he ordered security to escort you upstairs so you could collect the door prize!" he yelled back.

Looking over his shoulder as they wove their way between a life-sized cardboard cutout of Tom Jones and a dreadfully historically inaccurate doorman dressed in an aluminum suit of armor, he caught sight of the unknown Immortal and the squad of security guards rounding the corner and giving pursuit like those oh-so-not funny Keystone Kops from decades of yore.

"Shiii-it! We are so screwed!" shouted Methos.

"Why? We'll just wait for them outside and I'll take care of him," Mac huffed, still sprinting along beside the other man.

"I don't think he's interested in a challenge Mac or he would have just walked up to you and asked, all polite-like. Instead, he had his goon squad try and pick you up on the sly. This indicates to me something other than the usual Immortal wackiness."

"Good point," Duncan replied as they pushed through the doors and stumbled out into the street.

Taking a moment to case his surroundings, Methos caught sight of a neon sign which could very well save their asses. Grabbing MacLeod's arm once again, he bolted for it.

"Come on!"

Again looking behind him, Methos saw that the casino security had given up the chase but the Immortal was still jogging after them. He seemed in less of a hurry, content to keep them in sight. Well, how about this, you little twerp! Stopping in front of the right building, Methos looked up at the glowing sign and shook his head. How the mighty had fallen!

"What the...?" Duncan exclaimed beside him as he was dragged inside the Little Elvis Chapel.

"Holy ground, MacLeod. We'll wait for the son-of-a-bitch out here," he explained as they stopped inside the entranceway and looked around.

Unbelievably, there was a line-up of couples waiting to be joined in blessed matrimony by the state-licensed Elvis incarnation.

"I'll not hide, Methos," Duncan growled. "If this Immortal wants me, he can have me!"

Rolling his eyes at the other man's melodramatics, Methos sighed wearily. "I told you already; he's not interested in your head, well at least not right away."

"Then why are we here?" The Highlander flung his arms out to his side for emphasis.

"One, he can't come in here to cut you down then drag you out; two, just because he wasn't willing to take your head back there doesn't mean he hasn't changed his mind and decided to cut to the chase; and three, we've been seeing each other for years and I think it's time we made it official." Sidling up closer to the other man, Methos practically purred. "So, Mac, you ready to be number sixty-nine?"

Glaring at the other man, MacLeod didn't bother to comment. Changing demeanor instantly, the older Immortal crossed his arms. "Oh, I see. You want none of the slap and all of the tickle, is that it?"

"Will you shut up!" Duncan bellowed.

"Fine, darling, fine. We'll just call the whole thing off. But I'll have you know, I'm a dynamo in the sack...a bloody manimal! You don't know what you're throwing away!"

"Oh, TRUST me, I do!" Walking to the door, Mac peeked outside to see if their pursuer was waiting for them. Nothing. He couldn't spot the other man amongst the people passing by. "He's not out there," he informed his companion.

"Well, I suggest we wait here for a while to be sure, then head back to the hotel and inform the others of this latest development. Although, it's not as if it's anything new. Christ, Mac, who'd you piss off THIS time?"

"I don't know. I didn't recognize the guy."

"Wow, so you're telling me you've managed to make enemies out of people who haven't even met you yet? That's quite a feat MacLeod; I'm impressed."

"You know, you're a mean bastard when you're sober," Mac informed him.

The other man grinned. "That's why I try to avoid the condition when at all possible. Although it's all part of my charm, leaves an impression."

"Hate to tell you this Old Man, but you're not a first impression kind of guy." There was a slight pause. "Come to think of it, you're not a second impression kind of guy either."

"All good things come to those who wait, MacLeod. All good things to those who wait."

The two Immortals spotted a love seat off to the side and sat down. The line-up wasn't thinning any as an older woman in red advanced on the duo.

"Gentlemen, my name is Priscilla and I'll be your wedding coordinator. Now, as you probably know, the chapel cannot perform a legal marriage but we do offer special commitment ceremonies." She smiled, flashing a gold tooth.

Mac put his head in his hands and sighed. Commitment ceremonies! He knew exactly who he wanted committed!

Methos put a hand on Mac's thigh. "He's a little shy and having second thoughts." His thumb rubbed back and forth causing Mac to shift in an attempt to dislodge the hand. It didn't work.

"Oh, cold feet! Happens all the time, dear. Did you bring your own vows or do you want the standard ones?"

Mac groaned and slumped down in his seat. Methos perked up and draped an arm across the back of the small divan. "We didn't bring any. It's sort of a spur of the moment decision. You know, all the bright lights and spandex. Gets a man to thinking. Imagine my surprise when Mac here proposed over the seafood buffet."

"That sounds so romantic. How long have to two been together?"

"Feels like centuries but we've only known each other for a few years. We've been living together ever since. Mi casa es su casa, eh Mac?" Methos leaned into MacLeod.

Duncan looked up at the black velvet painting of Elvis in his white jumpsuit, all bloated - ah, the latter years! - and shook his head slightly. The only decent company seemed to be the King. It was going to be a long afternoon.