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The first is a compromise in the residents' locker room. A contract drawn up on a blue sticky note, the two of them in scrubs and lab coats, the sounds of the hospital wafting in, a promise to love each other even when they hate each other, to care for when they're old, smelly, and senile. A promise to never walk away. For them both, this is their true marriage.

The second is a formality, a legal certification at city hall, an exchange of vows, to cherish and to love, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer. It's a step in the direction of family, permission to check the box on the adoption form that says they're married. He's in a suit, she's in a dress she picked out of her closet. They're joyful, jubilant.

The third is an overcast morning on a ferryboat, he's chattering about how much he loves ferryboats and she's trying not to think about his hand and the surgery and the possibility that he'll never operate again.

Zola's walking round and round them, babbling, as if she's inherited his love for mornings. He wanted to bring her out here, show her a ferryboat and the sea. He likes little things like this, loves to share these moments.

"Are you okay?" he asks, concerned at her silence and preoccupation, bringing her back to the present.

"Let's get married again," she says, "Here. Right now."

For a moment, he just stares. "Here?" he asks, and she can see concern in his eyes, worry, fear, an alarm blaring something is wrong, find out what's wrong.

She smiles, "I'm happy," she says, "And I wanna marry you again. And I want us to be happy. Whatever happens."

He likes the little things, loves to celebrate. He likes spontaneity and he understands both the strength and fragility of what they have.

There's a glint in his eyes when he says, "You know most people get down on one knee to propose."

"You didn't," she teases back and watches him go to find the ferryman.

When they're standing there, laughing, Seattle in the early morning fog in the distance, she reflects how lucky they are to have found eachother. She laughs, watches the ferryman try to decide if they're cracked in the head or not, listens to Derek trying to convince him to perform the ceremony.

"I'm not a Sea-captain," he says.

Derek's smile widens, he's infectious like that, like a child, "Today you are," he says.