FIC: "Auld Acquaintances"
SERIES: "Colin Farrell's Adventures in Slash"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: December 25-26, 2004
FANDOM: RPS, plus AU "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World"
PAIRING: Colin / Jack Aubrey / Stephen Maturin (Russell Crowe & Paul Bettany)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They're either real people, or they're characters belonging to Patrick O'Brian, 20th Century Fox and Miramax, to Peter Weir and the respective actors of the movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash, rape, some violence, a few real people.
SUMMARY: Colin takes a New Year's cruise and his definition of friendship undergoes a sea change.
BETA: Charlie -- thanks and Happy Christmas!
DEDICATION: To Rita Quinn, one of the readers who continues to inspire me to enjoy writing these adventures.
AUTHOR NOTES: Does it seem like I enjoy torturing poor Colin in these adventures? Okay . . . I do. But this one is really a tribute to one of my favorite pairings: Aubrey/Maturin.

"I feel sick to my stomach," Colin complained, hugging the rail.

His sister Claudine scowled at him. The two stood on the deck of the streamlined yacht, smoking. The trip had been the idea of Colin's publicist, someone who was already treading water in Colin's mind. Colin had no desire to spend New Year's Eve on a ship, even one cruising the French Riviera full of movie stars and supermodels. He hated champagne and he hated formal parties, so what the fuck was he doing here?

"Suck it up, love," she said. "It's only a couple of hours."

"I'm tired of it already. I can't believe that cunt thought this was a good idea."

"There are some important people aboard," Claudine said. "Money people."

"Like I give a shite!" Colin said, letting his Irish out. "I'm not trying to get a movie made. I'm just a fucking actor."

"Someday you might -- who knows?"

Colin shook his head. "I never want to kiss that many asses, believe me. This is bad enough. I'm freezing and I think I'm going to puke."

"Go below," Claudine advised. "You might feel better."

Flipping his cigarette butt into the water, Colin reluctantly pried the fingers of his left hand off the rail and then eased himself toward the cabin. "Fuck this," he muttered, stumbling for the door. He heard his sister chuckling as he went inside, looking for the nearest bathroom.

"Where's the jack?" he asked a young man in a steward's uniform.

"The jack?"

"The pisser, the loo!" Colin's stomach was turning over; he tasted bile.

"The head is just there, sir," said the steward, pointing down the hall.

"Christ, thanks!"

Colin entered the small room, closing the door noisily behind him. Then he dropped to his knees and cradled his head in his hand, his face close to the smooth commode. How many times in his life had he found himself in this position, hugging the crapper as he heaved his guts up? It was ridiculous that he hadn't even had more than a couple beers, and here he was again!

"Oh, fuck," he murmured, feeling a rolling wave swaying the large yacht. He lurched forward, his head striking the toilet. The small room went dark, the air around him dusky with odiferous vapor. Was he unconscious? Was he hallucinating? He thought he heard the sound of guns.

Deafening.

Pounding.

Cannon fire.

Colin smelled smoke and felt the deck rocking. All around him men were moving quickly, nursing the huge guns that stood in a row in the confined space, firing one at a time down the line of twenty cannons.

"Get yourself to the surgeon!" a man shouted at Colin. "You took a bad rap to the head. You don't want to have him unscrew the top of your skull, do ya? Give him a hand, Nagle," the man ordered.

The dark-haired young man moved forward to take Colin's arm, but instinctively he shook off the proffered hand. "I'll find my way," he said, and stumbled to the passage. Dazed, he walked down the stairs and through the crowded confines of what appeared to be an old-fashioned ship. The sights, the smells and the sounds were foreign to him, and he ended up peeking in at the sickbay by pure accident.

A slender man with close-cropped dark hair looked up from a large book. "Yes?" he said, pulling crudely fashioned plugs from both ears. All around him were cages, vials and tanks of what appeared to be exotic creatures and strange concoctions.

"I'm Farrell. I was sent."

"Come in, Farrell, and sit down here. You're the new gunner's mate?"

Colin stared at the pale man, not answering.

"Pressed into service?"

Colin shrugged. "I don't remember."

"You've had a blow to the head," the doctor said, prodding Colin's tender forehead. "Hopefully your senses will return, but in the meantime, stay away from the guns. If you experience any more dizziness, come and see me. I'm Dr. Maturin."

Nodding, Colin stood. Then a large, smiling man with bright eyes and light hair tied loosely back entered the small enclosure, his formidable figure filling the confined space.

"Stephen, how can you spend a fine day like this hunkered in here?" the man asked in a deep voice.

"This is Captain Aubrey," the doctor announced, ignoring the question.

Colin pulled himself up straight. "Captain," he said, studying the impressive man in front of him. Aubrey's energy was overpowering in the tiny, crowded sickbay.

"Carry on," Aubrey said casually, turning his attention to the doctor. "Stephen, you missed a very fine bird on deck this afternoon," he said in a teasing tone, not noticing as Colin walked away.

A few hours later, Colin found himself climbing out of his hammock, following the strange sound of string music he heard emanating from somewhere aft. It was like a siren's song, tugging at him, luring him up one deck, past the guns to a dark spot outside the great cabin, quarters of the ship's captain.

Killick, the captain's steward, stood nearby, shaking his head, holding a tray.

"What is it?" Colin asked.

"It's himself and the doctor, of course. They do this near to every night, make this screeching ya can't even dance to!" With a disgusted sound, the man tromped off.

Colin stood for a moment and cocked his head, listening to the music coming from the captain's cabin. The captain and the doctor were clearly talented players, and Colin found himself instantly captured by the spell of the song. The two distinct sounds of the stringed instruments seemed to be frolicking together at first, tickling one another under the chin, occasionally reaching out a surreptitious foot to trip the other up. Then, as the music continued, the sounds became less playful and more serious in intent, almost competitive. Despite the intricate and evocative music, the instruments were definitely now at war, engaging in a spirited joust -- attack, retreat, attack, retreat.

Finally, the strings started to blend like the bodies of lovers, meshing together with fingers of fusing flesh, rising and falling like straining spines, reaching away and then back with a point-counterpoint that ended in perfect harmony.

Colin realized he was holding his breath, just waiting for what would come next.

The song forged gently forward and subsided like the surf at low tide, each passage exposing more naked beach.

And Colin felt the music in his chest and loins, experiencing the rapture of the two instruments as though they were sighing lovers -- lovers willing to share their joy with anyone willing to listen.

The duet was exquisite foreplay. But it had to lead to something more elemental, Colin believed. The two men holding the bows and employing them so skillfully must be feeling the same thing he was, their arms starting to quiver with more than just the vibrations of the strings. Colin's groin was thrumming, and so must theirs be.

Suddenly the music stopped with a slash of strings, and Colin heard the two voices, one laughing, the other chiding. This must be the moment, he thought, when they would set aside the instruments and reach for one another.

A midshipman came up behind him, glancing suspiciously his way. "What are you doing there, you lurcher? Get about your business!"

Glowering, Colin hesitated, reluctant to abandon his eavesdropping. "Aye, sir," he finally said, as he went back down to his hammock on the crew's berth deck. He would be left to himself to imagine what happened next in the captain's cabin, and his own hand would strum across his lap while his mind played out the fantasy.

The next day Colin's head had cleared and he felt normal enough to return to regular duty. He remembered his role as gunner's mate on board the H.M.S. Surprise, a frigate in the Royal Navy whose captain and crew were pledged to support the war efforts against Napoleon Bonaparte. After mandatory gunnery practice, Colin found himself surrounded by the carpenter's mate Nagle and two of his friends; the group had been rewarded with an extra ration of grog, a mixture of rum and water served twice a day on board, for their excellent efforts. Nagle and his friends, in an inexplicably magnanimous mood, offered Colin their extra shares; and before long, he was feeling mellow and even tipsy, lowering his guard and admitting to the group that he didn't care at all for the sea and longed for the shores of Ireland.

A glance passed between two of the men, and Colin noted it sleepily, wondering what it meant before dismissing it as inconsequential. He was looking forward to a few hours in his hammock to sleep off the grog, and he nearly stumbled when he got up to excuse himself. Public drunkenness on board was a flogging offense, and as he had no wish to be flogged, Colin attempted to straighten out his gait.

"Let me help you, mate," offered Nagle, throwing an arm around Colin's shoulder.

"I'm fine, thanks," Colin said, shoving the man away. Within seconds, the three had wrestled his arms behind him and were shoving him against one of the twelve-pounders, the large guns named for the weight of their cannon balls.

"Pull down his drawers," ordered Nagle. "I'm going to have at him! I've wanted to for days! Keep watch, will you?"

Colin started to protest, and a acrid-tasting rag was shoved in his mouth. "Be quiet, boy, if you know what's good for you! If the captain knows you take it this way, you'll be hanged or worse. Hold your tongue, for Chrissake!"

Within seconds Colin's backside was being pried apart and rough, greasy fingers were spreading him open. He struggled, wanting to cry out that he did not 'take it this way' as Nagle had suggested, but the rag threatened to go down his throat, and he found himself forced to be still or risk choking to death. The two friends held his arms tight behind him, one on each side of him. Nagle's free hand crawled up his chest under his shirt, squeezing the taut flesh and tweaking his nipples. Nagle then opened his pants and shoved his exposed groin against Colin, his male organ flagrant and hot. Colin groaned as the head of the thing pressed into him, trying at first to fight, then to relax and allow the entry without being torn. He held his breath and chewed on the foul rag, water springing to his eyes.

Christ, let me stand this, he thought. Let me get through this uninjured and find a way to dismember this bastard later. He'll rue the day he ever set eyes on me!

Nagle thrust forward, and Colin felt searing pain as his anus reluctantly gave way. Grunting, Nagle worked over him enthusiastically, each forward motion claiming a little more entry. Colin swallowed any sounds he might inadvertently make; he closed his eyes so he wouldn't see the grinning faces of the man's scurvy accomplices. He found himself lucky that Nagle's excitement peaked before he had even accomplished complete penetration. The man stiffened and swore, pulling back and dripping his accomplishment down Colin's bare legs.

I hope the bastard's clean, Colin thought, not daring to imagine what it would be like to have an arse full of pox.

"Well, that's that," Nagle said, yawning and patting Colin's bare backside. "Not so fine as I imagined, but better than nothin'."

With his arms finally released, Colin pulled the rag from his mouth and threw it down. Then he bent and reached for his pants.

"Fuck you, Nagle! You'll like it a lot better when it's a musket between your cheeks!"

"Remember what I said," Nagle taunted. "It's a hanging offense to be a little sodomite. And Captain Jack will take no quarter, believe me!"

Colin fastened his pants, his hands shaking.

"Give him the rest of the grog," Nagle said. "He earned it."

The three sauntered off, and Colin reached for the drink and thirstily finished it. Then he wiped his face with his shirt and re-tied his hair before making his way toward his hammock. He was oblivious to the sounds of the ship and the noise of the crew as he stumbled along, understanding now what the men meant when they called one another 'groggy,' nearly tripping over a careening goat that had gotten out of its pen and then going head-first into a large figure in front of him.

It was Captain Jack Aubrey.

"Are you drunk, man?" Aubrey said, aghast.

Colin shook his head, fear capturing his furry tongue.

"Mowett, this man is drunk! Clap him in irons."

Colin once again felt his arms being pulled behind him, and he was thrust forward. "Oh, fuck!" he said angrily, amazed at his own bad luck. Now he did trip and fall, his forehead grazing the corner of a rough chest. He lost consciousness for a time, and when he awoke he was lying in irons, his ankles held by the bilbo, a long bar with sliding shackles attached to the floor.

"Have some water, mate," said the coxswain, Bonden. "We've got to take you on deck for the floggin'."

"How long have I been out?" Colin asked.

"Hours. At least you missed some of the punishment that way. Too bad you couldn't do without the next."

"I'm fucked," Colin said.

"A shame you run afoul of Lucky Jack," Bonden said. "He sometimes turns a blind eye to a drunken seaman, but not when he's nearly knocked arse over tea kettle! Here's a fresh shirt. You do know enough not to make a sound during the  floggin',  don't ya' mate?"

After changing his shirt, Colin was taken above where most of the crew was assembled in full dress. The sky was fine and the sea calm, and Colin found himself doubting for a moment what was about to happen. Then the officers appeared on the quarterdeck, led by the tall, grim-faced Jack Aubrey, holding the Articles of War under one arm. When the Royal Marine Captain Howard had ordered the officers to "uncover" their tricorn hats and the marines to present arms, Aubrey proceeded with the reading of Article 36.

"All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet shall be punished by the laws and customs of the sea which are not mentioned in this act of which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted," he read. "Colin James Farrell, gunner's mate, you are hereby charged with public drunkenness and failure to salute an officer and make your obedience."

Colin swallowed, looking up at the captain.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

I was purposely duped, he thought, then raped. I was a complete lobcock, a blundering fool, and I deserve this.

"No sir," he answered.

"Seize him up!" the captain ordered.

Colin's shirt was removed and his wrists were tied to the tripod. "Seized up, sir!" the master at arms announced.

"One dozen," said the captain.

The smack of the cat sounded against Colin's back twelve times. He kept his face against the wooden slats of the tripod during the flogging and choked back his groans. All around him the men on deck were silent, suffering along with the punished man, proud of the stoic way he bore up under the lash. When the flogging was finally finished and he was taken to Dr. Maturin, Colin wasn't able to decide what part of him hurt the worst -- his striped back, his tender anus or the throbbing headache that seemed to border on a full-blown megrim.

Maturin rubbed oil into his back and stared for a while into his eyes, noting the raised knot on his forehead and muttering all the while about the evils of grog.

"How many blows to the head do you think you can withstand, Farrell?" he asked. "You must be completely senseless by now."

Colin silently agreed.

"Pull down your breeches," Maturin ordered.

Colin reluctantly did as he was told, hoping the doctor didn't plan a more intimate examination.

"You're not afflicted with pox, correct?" Maturin asked. When Colin nodded, Maturin made a note in his log, then he looked over his spectacles at the nervous Irishman. "Bend over, Farrell," he said.

Hesitating, Colin tried to think of an excuse not to comply -- or one to explain the condition of his backside. "I don't have piles," he reported, as though this pronouncement would stave off further exploration on the doctor's part. When Maturin did not seem impressed, he finally turned around and grabbed his ankles, exposing himself to the doctor.

"You are considerably inflamed here, Farrell," Maturin commented, prodding the swollen flesh carefully. "Is there some reason I should know?"

His face reddened by both his position and his embarrassment, Colin cleared his throat and tried to speak.

"Hold your position for a moment while I dress this," Maturin ordered. Colin nearly gasped when he felt a cooling unguent rubbed between his cheeks. Despite the fact he knew the doctor was only doing his duty, he found the ministrations incredibly erotic.

"Now straighten up," the doctor said.

Facing the doctor, Colin sighed and cupped his hands in front of his privates. "I've been bound up for a few days. I had a rough go," he lied.

The doctor stared at Colin, his look skeptical. "Well, next time come to me and I'll give you a linseed enema."

Colin reached for his pants and shirt, turning away from the doctor's keen eyes. "Yessir," he said. "I will."

"And Farrell. Watch out for the grog."

"Aye, sir," Colin said, pulling on his clothing. "I certainly will!" He nearly ran out of the small enclosure that housed the doctor's workspace.

Later, as sore as he was, Colin couldn't help creeping upstairs again and silently letting himself into the anteroom outside the captain's cabin, crouching in a dark corner of the small space, close enough to listen to the night's duet, either musical or physical, between Lucky Jack and the doctor. From everything he had seen and heard, he believed the two were lovers and hiding the fact because of the Navy's protocol.

He settled in, protecting his smarting back by hugging his knees and leaning forward. He could hear their voices clearly, the deeper, more boisterous sound of the captain countered by the occasionally ironic tone of the doctor. Even their conversation had a certain harmony, and Colin closed his eyes and listened.

"Is he a paerderest, then?" Aubrey asked. "I'd hate to have to deal with it."

"I think many of the men are affectionate toward him," Maturin answered, "but this might have been an isolated incident. He wasn't torn, but his flesh was clearly irritated. If he was raped, he wouldn't say. He lay the whole thing on the door of an extreme case of constipation."

Colin's face reddened, realizing they were talking of him. The doctor was betraying his condition to the captain! And if he were accused of sodomy, he could be hanged.

"I think we should let well enough alone, Stephen. I have no intention of making a public case of it. Any sort of investigation would simply make the matter much worse."

His chest thudding, Colin allowed himself a deep intake of breath. Of course the captain would be willing to ignore the situation, since he himself regularly broke the rule! Wasn't there scuttle-butt that Lucky Jack was willing to turn a blind eye toward such activities because he preferred his men to find relief with one another rather than try to sneak women aboard or frequent prostitutes on shore and end up with virulent forms of pox?

"He certainly is a fine looking young man," Aubrey was saying. "Ignorant as hell and dirty much of the time, but even the crude markings he has on his skin don't seem to detract from his natural comeliness. I've looked at him once or twice, myself. It was a shame to flog him."

"I agree he's a force of nature. Some men are gifted with a scent designed to stimulate the senses of either sex. On a ship like this, he keeps the men aroused enough that their manliness doesn't become dormant."

"I want my men to be at their best," Aubrey said, "but I'd prefer they were not so aroused that a good looking fellow has to guard his backside. And Farrell's not at all poof-y," he continued. "He's game and tough. It's hard for me to understand."

"Why is it?" Maturin asked, exasperation in his voice. "Would you yourself be attracted to a girlish man?"

Colin sat forward, as though the action would allow him to hear more clearly. There was nothing but silence from the great cabin. He wondered if the two men were perhaps embracing or snogging. Probably the captain wanted to show the doctor just what sort of man he himself preferred.

Sighing, Colin rubbed his face. He wasn't sure why he was so interested in the relationship between the men, but somehow he couldn't keep himself from picturing the two in one another's arms, sharing a secret smile and a whispered promise. He could almost see through the thin wall where he knew the captain's strong fingers were probably caressing the doctor's face.

There was a great deal of difference between the love shared by two men and the painful, insulting act that Colin had experienced in the gunroom. Did the captain actually penetrate the doctor, committing the capital offense that men had been hanged for? Colin doubted it. Probably their physical interaction was mutually respectful, designed to please both without profaning either. Why should the doctor, even as devoted to Aubrey as he was, be forced to bear the brunt of the captain's baser needs? Colin certainly knew it was possible for two men to find relief in one another's arms without any sort of penetration, and, in fact, these methods could sometimes be even more intense and exciting than penetration itself.

He strained to hear any sounds of sighs or low moans from the cabin. Were the two now polluting one another, leaning in to watch their hands working over one another's fevered flesh? Did they perform the act together, encouraging each other toward a mutual climactic result? Or did they take turns, one man stroking the other rhythmically, like holding a bow against a fiddle to elicit soaring music?

Expecting at any moment to hear a telltale gasp from one or the other, Colin shifted, his own crotch feeling suddenly pinched. He thought of the unbridled strength of the captain and the kind, attentive hands of the doctor, and he wished he himself were between the two, engaging in the same activities, sharing the same passion, enjoying the same culmination. Why could he not serve as their sextant, measuring their passion and navigating the motions that would lead to the most satisfying prize? His own skills in this area were as prodigious as the captain's seamanship or the doctor's ability to heal! He was wasted, crouching in the darkness like a potential assassin instead of a potential lover.

Colin sighed, the ache in his chest more prominent than the one in his groin. The results of his skulking behavior seemed to be frustration, loneliness and even sadness. He found himself ambivalent about even taking the trouble to alleviate his own need, tired of the feel of his own hand or the friction of whatever object he found available to rub against. It was not the same as being held by another person who cared whether he found satisfaction -- and being kissed by someone who felt gratitude and even affection after he himself showed the same care. Being roughly taken had reminded him that there was no substitute for loving human interaction, even when the love was fleeting and inspired mostly by a racing heart and throbbing groin.

"What are you doing there?" came a loud whisper. "Is that you, Farrell?"

Colin stood up quickly, facing the stern, pale face of Stephen Maturin.

"I thought you might play some music," he quickly explained. "I wanted to listen."

The doctor shook his head. "Come in here. This has to be dealt with!"

They walked unannounced into the captain's cabin. Jack Aubrey was pulling on his nightshirt; Colin got a glimpse of strong, thick legs with an equally impressive trunk of flesh dangling between them before the long shirt fell into place.

Aubrey looked surprised. "What is this?" he asked.

"Farrell has been eavesdropping," the doctor announced. "He's heard everything we said."

Colin shook his head. "Not everything. I couldn't hear much of the last. Whatever you were doin', I mean."

His face grave, but his eyes somewhat amused, Aubrey approached Colin. The captain's long, thick hair was unfettered, falling around his face. "Young man," he said in his deep voice, "you seem destined for trouble. Are you some sort of Jonah?"

Again Colin shook his head, this time somewhat furiously. He didn't want the captain to think he was a harbinger of ill fortune, just because he himself had the luck of the devil! "Nossir!" he said adamantly. "I'm no Jonah!"

"Then why do you continue to put yourself in harm's way? Don't you know it would be considered an offense to be found spying on the master and commander of this ship?"

This time Colin nodded, realizing his position was indefensible. "I just wanted to hear the music," he said. "It reminds me of home, somehow."

"Well," the captain said, smiling, "if you want to hear music, perhaps the doctor and I can be persuaded to play a little. We haven't done so tonight."

Maturin looked at Aubrey in what amounted to astonishment. The captain nodded his head toward the large stringed instrument that leaned in a corner of the cabin. "Doctor? If you please?"

Shrugging and reaching for a stool, Maturin positioned himself behind the cello, his bow held ready.

Aubrey picked up his violin. "What would you like to hear, Farrell?"

Colin stood dumbfounded staring at the captain in his nightshirt; he had no idea what to say or do.

"How about this?" Aubrey said, plucking at his strings. "This is actually Scottish, but they've recently improved the tune a great deal, and I think even an Irishman can appreciate it. Isn't that so, Doctor?"

A sour look on his face, Maturin waited expectantly.

The captain began a slow, simple tune, the sound from the violin like sweet singing. He glanced at the doctor, who smiled and joined in.

Now Colin stood transfixed, listening to the haunting strains of his own private concert.

"It's from a poem by Robert Burns, full of nostalgia and all that," Aubrey explained, suddenly halting the song. "'So take my hand, my trusty friend, and give me your hand, and we will take a hearty drink together, In memory of those days now past,'" he quoted, watching the doctor's face. Colin swore he could see a blush on Maturin's pale cheeks.

"Again," the captain ordered, and he and the doctor bent to their bows. As Colin listened to the pure tones of the simple harmony, tears came to his eyes.

"Beautiful," he said when the two finished.

"Adequate, I thought," Aubrey commented. "The doctor was a bit slow."

"As usual," Maturin countered, "the captain rushed the meter."

Feeling as though he were suddenly trespassing on even more private space, Colin shuffled backward awkwardly. "I should go now," he said, "and leave you alone."

"Hold there, boy," the captain commanded. "I'm not finished with you yet! This business of skulking about can't be tolerated. Sneaking grog and fascinating the crew are different matters, but spying on me is nasty business. Do you see what I mean?"

Colin swallowed, unsure of how to defend himself. Hadn't he taken enough punishment over the past 48 hours without adding the captain's insults to his injury?

"I guess if the floggin' didn't teach me and I didn't learn from havin' me bum busted in the gunroom, I'm just a hopeless case, and you might as well give up on me."

Maturin shot a meaningful look at the captain. "I think he's right, Jack," he said. "Enough is enough."

The captain smiled. "Well, then, we'll forget this business, Farrell. But you can't be found outside my cabin, d'you understand me?"

Colin nodded and started to turn to go. Then something stopped him, and his natural frankness took over. "I'll try not to come. I really will! There's just something about you two that draws me in . . . It's not just the music . . . It's everything I feel between you. It makes me want to just sit and listen, or to watch you together, or even to lie with the both of you. You can hang me for sayin' it, but it's the damn truth!"

Aubrey and Maturin looked pointedly at one another. The captain cleared his throat. "Well," he began, "the doctor and I are . . . particular friends. We have been for many years."

"I can see that," Colin said. "I certainly can."

"Jack, I think Farrell believes us to be something more than friends," Maturin said.

"Well, I can't think of anything more lasting than friendship, or anything more important or true. Can you?" Aubrey asked.

The doctor shook his head. "Not in this case," he answered.

"Shall we play another?"

Colin stepped forward, ready to ask the two men to hold him between them, to let him experience their passion and their commitment, to be a witness and a party to their love. But he knew it was a request they could never grant, and he didn't want to test their good humor any further. As they glanced at one another waiting for which one would choose the next song, Colin backed away, memorizing the tableau of the two men and their instruments.

Then he turned and left the cabin.

On his way back to his hammock, Colin came face to face with the carpenter's mate, Joseph Nagle. Instead of alarm, Colin found himself experiencing pleasure at the meeting. Noting Nagle's look of surprise, Colin grinned.

"Ready to take a beating?" he asked.

Nagle turned to run, but Colin was too quick for him. He sprang, toppling the man with the weight of his own body. His right fist connected with Nagle's jaw, and the satisfying strike sent a surging vibration up Colin's arm before they both hit the ground and Colin was once again knocked senseless.

When he came around, Colin was alone in a cramped bathroom, and it took him several seconds to remember exactly where he was and who he was -- Colin Farrell, the actor, not Colin Farrell, gunner's mate on the H.M.S. Surprise.

Colin stood up and took a long piss, then splashed cool water on his face for several minutes before exiting the 'head.' Claudine was close by, her face reflecting her concern at his absence.

"Where have you been? I've looked everywhere? You scared the shit out of me!"

Colin shrugged. "Sorry. I was in the bathroom."

"All this time? It's nearly midnight."

"A perfect ending to a perfect year," he remarked. "Let's get a fucking drink."

The string quartet began the traditional New Year's refrain as Colin and Claudine headed to the bar and got their drinks. "Make mine draft," he said as his sister reached for a glass of champagne.

"Fuck," he said suddenly.

"What? What's the matter?"

"That song. I always hated that fucking song . . . But now I don't."

"It's only 'Auld Lang Syne.' They always play it at midnight. 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot!' Good advice, if you ask me. Give me a kiss, baby brother."

Colin kissed his sister, then turned and walked out on the deck of the yacht. He leaned on the rail and looked down at the dark water; then he lifted his glass and made a silent toast to his 'auld acquaintances' -- Capt. Jack Aubrey and Dr. Stephen Maturin and their special, 'particular' friendship.

The End