Knowing that the knots in my stomach weren't going to go away, I let out a soft sigh, before padding over to the mirror to assess if I looked as bad as I felt. Looking at the gaunt, almost sunken looking reflection staring back at me, I get my answer. It shouldn't be as bad as this, I should be used to this…feeling. I tell myself that, over and over again and yet, the acid in my gut churns and churns. I turn in defeat, leave the sanctity of the bathroom, and trot out into the hallway. My directions, are directionless.

I have no place to be.

I'm where I need to be, but…I'm also where I'd give a thousand winged horses to run screaming from. He'd be home soon, and then, not even such majestic beasts as flying equines could save me. I shudder as I pad down the stairs of his well worn home. Every step is familiar, I know it was well as I do my own apartment. Avoiding the last step to save myself the ear splitting creak, I find myself meandering into the comfortingly unchanging living room.

The couch accedes to my familiar frame, sinking around me to allow for optimum comfort. I curl up in an unobtrusive ball, tucking myself in to my torso, seeking a warmth that isn't physical. A warmth that can't be conjured with warm blankets, and hot milk. No, the warmth I seek is an internal one. A temperature that arises from an earthquake of forgiveness, before seeping beautifully from its own epicentre.

How long I would have to wait for that warmth, was indeterminate.

I'd screwed up before, many a time actually, now I come to think of it. Actually, I don't want to think about those times. This time, the time I'm in, is all consuming. The look on his face when I'd resurfaced with that perp, the indecipherable surge of emotion that seeped from those eyes…they weren't something I could think about, whilst thinking about other things. That contortion of facial muscles, that blazing blue eyed fury…they required a singular mind track.

Hugging my legs, like I used to do as a child, I groaned into the headrest my knees provided.

There weren't many things that could have my stomach jostling like an incessant ebbing and flowing of the most truculent waters. There weren't many things that could render me incapable of inhaling an extra pepperoni, cheese crust pizza. There definitely weren't many things that would leave me feeling so cloaked in guilt, that I couldn't even muster up the energy to throw on a film to fill the deafening silence the empty, oh so empty, house provided.

But…the look, the terror and fear that had etched onto one Leroy Jethro Gibbs' face as he'd clapped eyes on my gasping, shuddering body…that was an exception. I mean, it's not as if I'm not a good swimmer, because I am. Pretty darn decent actually. And it's not as if I actually would have drowned, because, I wouldn't. Well, it was a very slim possibility at best. And it's not as if the risk I took, the opportunity I seized…wouldn't pay off.

Because it would.

That cretin, that human trafficking piece of filth that I had wrenched from the clutches of an icy DC Marina, he had information. He held, in his twisted little head, more information on the routes and pipelines of the Eastern European trafficking trade than we could ever hope to garner with a year's intelligence gathering. To allow him to drown, would be to throw that information down the drain.

It was an admittedly uncalculated risk, and I admit, I took it. But…that's not the whole story. Sighing some more, I hug my knees tighter to my chest and commit to this damned introspection Abby is always harping on about. Mostly because, well…mostly because right now, I have no one else to talk to. But myself, that is. And well, I guess you could say I'm a talkative kind of guy. Well…I think a lot of people would say I'm a very talkative kind of guy…so, here goes.

I knew that dragging Ivan from the ocean would lead to a break in the case. I knew that, I swear, I knew that. But…if I'm being totally honest with myself, and I am, because really…who else is here? The main reason…the main motivation of my swan dive, wasn't the case. Wasn't the age old argument of end's justifying means. And it sure as hell wasn't for the thrill of heavily polluted water forcing its way into my jaded, plague ridden lungs.

Nestling my head deeper into my knees, I find myself exhaling in frustration.

I didn't do it to play the hero. I didn't do it because I'm a federal agent, and that's my job. Though, I am a federal agent, a good one, and that is my job. Man…my knee caps are kind of hard…anyhow, no. The main motivation for my aqua aerobics…I pause, groaning in self contained embarrassment, burying my face further into my headrest.

The main motivation was…hell, I thought it would make him proud of me.

Thought it might elicit that rare "atta boy," that rightly or wrongly, meant the world to me. You see, my own father…he's what you'd call…dysfunctional, maybe? I don't know the PC terms for these things anymore, in my head, where PC terms don't live…the man is, was, and always will be a sperm donor. Now, please, don't get me wrong. There are dashingly good looks, a chiselled jaw and great hair to be thankful for from said secretions, but still…as fatherhood went, my father…he just, went.

To Paris, Berlin…hell, even Wales.

Anywhere were there were dubious business opportunities, and even more dubious women.

But they were the good times. The times when I would be free to be me, without watching my words…my actions, my clothes. Free to be a nine year old, with a gap in his teeth and a C on his report card. My mom…well, she's dead you see. Died when I was a pup myself, but…she was a good woman. A great mother. Anyway, that's why those "atta boy's," from a self confessed functional mute are kinda important to me.

Maybe they shouldn't be, but…they are.

They're rare, few and far between, but I remember everyone I've ever gotten. When I came spluttering up about the water's surface though, I knew…it wasn't an "atta boy," kinda moment. Gibbs…was nuclear level pissed. Once he saw that I was breathing, that Ivan was safely restrained, the worry slipped from his face, to be replaced by that kind of anger that always had my intestines clenching.

The…"wait till I get home," anger.

Cliché, right?

Wrong.

I was literally, waiting for him to get home. I knew I was going to be banished to an inane work up from Ducky. I knew I was going to subjected to a torturous, though well intentioned, British lecture. I had tried to argue, foolishly, but my damned teeth just would not stop chattering. I mean, the water was cold, granted. But I didn't think it was that cold.

I didn't really think at all, now that I think about it.

And I guess, when I survived all the poking and prodding, I knew I was going to be sent back to Gibbs' place. When he's that mad, he tends to send me away for a bit to cool down. Which is good, I guess. But…it sure does make the whole horror that more horrific. Pulling my knees closer to me, I sigh once more. He's going to want answers, and I'm not sure I want to give them. Of course, not wanting to give them and giving them were about as related as a cat and a mouse. Answers would be given, answers that even to my own mind, now, sound idiotic. I feel my face flush as I shut my eyes tight.

How in the name of all that is holy am I going to tell Gibbs…that I just wanted to make him proud?

My face is on fire, and the groan dies in my throat.

A sudden, bright option dances down in front of my eyes. I squint into my knees, my breaths becoming slightly ragged.

I could lie.

I ponder this for a moment, assessing the plethora of pros and cons that come with that option.

It would save me intense embarrassment for one. I don't do embarrassment well. The fact that my face could fry an egg and I'm alone would signify that. Plus… I go all…well, goofy I guess, and start screeching movie quotes, here there and everywhere. Relevant movie quotes mind you, great movie quotes actually. But…it tends to grate on the boss-man's nerves.

It would also be believable. I've been reckless before. I've jumped off things that people should not jump off, it's not as if this dip today is that out of character. I could easily plaster that bright smile on my face, force it to meet my eyes. I could play the frat boy routine I have down to an art. I could shrug nonchalantly, and pretend to be utterly unperturbed by my actions.

My groan is muffled by the tight compress of my bony knees.

Gibbs wouldn't buy that.

I had a feeling, more than just a feeling actually, that he'd sussed out my masks a long time ago. That he knew the ultra confident, ultra suave Tony DiNozzo was just a façade. That things…did get to me. He would know that I was slipping on that mask, and he would know how to pierce through it.

I swallow hard, and run my hands through my hair in sheer frustration.

If I lied, he would know. He always knew, for crying out loud he was Gibbs. But…right now, all I want to do is lie. To charm and wiggle my way out of the truth. To accept whatever I had coming, and move on. But…I know the man won't leave at that. He never does. He'll demand to know the why behind the what, and I'll have no choice but to admit that I have a pathetic desire to see him smile that proud smile at me.

God, what the hell is wrong with me?

I'm a grown ass man. I shouldn't need positive reinforcement from a boss that didn't like to use too many words even to order his coffee. I shouldn't want to please him. I should just want to do my job, and go home. Like every other normal person. But…that wasn't enough for me. The job…is kinda more than a job. Other people go home to their partners, maybe their kids, maybe even a dog. I…go home to an empty apartment.

So, the job is important to me.

I couldn't lie. Even if he didn't call me on it, which he would. But, even if he didn't, I'd never be able to survive more than one day with it inside me. I'd tried it once, oh a few years back. I'd gotten away with it whatever I'd done too, that was back before Gibbs knew me the way he does now. He'd believed me, and I'd come away unscathed.

Physically.

Mentally, I spent twenty fours in agony. The easy acceptance of my lie had clung to my gut, making me feel rampantly ill. I'd clawed my way through a pit full of excuses and self assuring rationales, before eventually finding the guts to come clean. It…hadn't been pretty, but I sure as hell felt a lot better afterwards.

Well, mentally anyway.

Swinging my now pretty cramped legs out from under my clingy torso, I shuffle to my feet in search of something to quench my sudden thirst. When I get nervous, I get thirsty. What I'd really love now is a beer, well, a couple of beers actually. But…that's probably not a good idea. Not being at work due to an apparent inability to follow orders would not be helped by being drunk, absent from work, due to an apparent inability to follow orders.

I feel the exasperated grunt in my throat before it's released.

Standing and appraising the entire contents of Gibbs' fridge, I wonder, and not for the first time, how the man is above ground. Sniffing gingerly at an open carton of milk, the recoiling in disgust is instant as I spy the well exceeded use by date. My gaze shifts to a dubious looking bottle of orange juice, before giving it up as a bad job and grabbing a solitary bottled water.

Just as the first drops gently seep down my throat, there's a noise.

A familiar noise.

…a now deadly noise.

The noise of a handle turning downwards, and a stubbornly squeaky door shifting forwards.

The water catches in my throat. He's early…oh god he's so early. I'm not ready. I'm choking. Leaning over the sink, I feel my eyes burn with the effort of my retching. The water, has most certainly gone down the wrong way.

Maybe…even water is afraid of an enraged LJ Gibbs.

My spluttering and snorting over the sink is suddenly aided, by a warm hand on my back, delivering expert taps to expel the blockage. My wind pipe settles down gratefully, and a steady flow of oxygen once again finds its way into my lungs. Straightening up, the bottle is carefully taken from my hands as an equally careful gaze is trained over my face.

I gulp.

I know Gibbs, I know him well.

He's calm now, in control. He's concerned about my spluttering and heaving, but the anger…is in the back of his eyes. I can practically see it, practically isolate it from the bright blue spark that resides there. Suddenly, my oxygen supply isn't quite so generous as my stomach keels over once more, and my gaze finds the floor.

"Hey boss…you're early."

God.

Is that the most intelligent thing I can think of to say? You're early? I feel my face grow hot, as I keep my gaze trained resolutely on a scrap of the kitchen floor. You can really find the most inane things the most interesting when you want to. I've found that out. Over the years, I've found various aspects of the boss-man's house more interesting than even the best James Bond film.

Ok, maybe not more interesting than say, Goldfinger, but certainly right up there with… Tomorrow Never Dies.

I feel my nose wrinkle.

Even in the current moment, my love for Sean Connery supersedes all.

He's talking, crap, he's talking.

I'm focussing, feeling my eyes narrow with the effort. His tone, is gentle, and it somehow makes me feel worse. I always feel even crappier when he goes all gentle giant on me. I guess…somehow, no matter how hard he tries, I can't totally shake the fear that he'll react to my many escapades in the same way Senior did.

So far, it's never happened.

He's bawled me out, he's tanned my butt…but, never viciously. Never in anger, and not that he'd ever admit it, but…always gently. It's weird I guess, but I suppose everyone has their private side, even Gibbs. There's a difference between the work Gibbs, and the home Gibbs. God I'm rambling now, I always get super pensive when I'm up the creek.

He's waiting for an answer.

To his quiet "you ok, Tony?"

I swallow.

Looking up, knowing that eye contact was inevitable, I nod my head slowly.

"Yes boss," I mutter, even though I can barely remember what ok feels like. Even though I was ok, just a couple of hours ago, it feels like a lifetime ago. He nods then, in a careful pretence of acceptance, and jerks his head in the direction of the living room.

"Go, I'll be in to you in a minute."

Gulping, words form in my throat, and die there. Clamping my mouth shut, I turn on my heel and walk slowly into the room I'd just vacated. Usually, this room was a comfortable one. We'd often just hang here. Me, Abby, and Tim, Ziva. When we'd bully Gibbs into letting us commandeer his TV, and rent something or other.

It was a great room, then.

Now, I hated it.

I'd gotten more lectures in this room than a student in a theatre hall in Harvard. My butt had often, so very often, entered this room at moderate temperature, yet leaving with a tropical glow. This was a time that I loathed this room. Loathed my usual spot on the couch, loathed my usual prime view of the set.

It was just…loathsome.

Throwing myself down, making a mental note to enjoy the ability of sitting, I chew my fingernails nervously. That's another thing I do, when I'm nervous. I go all Hannibal Lector on my cuticles. They were in fairly good condition at the moment, I hadn't been in enough trouble to warrant this kind of one on one attention in a while. But my sharp teeth are bearing down on them now, and soon they would be as chewed up as the chewing out I was about to get.

Before I could really get into the rhythm of self gnawing, I was suddenly no longer alone.

Sweeping back into the room, Gibbs placed himself wordlessly in the chair opposite mine.

The so dubbed "lecturing throne."

Abby had come up with that one, and Tim, Ziva and I had vehemently agreed.

I don't think the boss knows his chairs nickname.

At least, I hope he doesn't.

I'm digressing, my thoughts spreading out like wildfire, a wildfire I have to contain, because, he's speaking. His voice is still calm, still in control. But…its seeping with a disappointment that cuts me to the quick. Angry shrieking I can take, calm disappointment, not so much. I glance longingly at my nails, but leave them be. Gibbs has this thing about…self mutilation, as he calls it.

"Why did you do it Tony?" he's asking, "you heard me order you to pull back, and you disobeyed me."

His eyes linger over mine and I feel my stomach try out for the circus.

"I want to know why, and I want to know why, right now."

His voice is taking on an edge now, and I squirm somewhat in my seat. How could I tell him why…how could I tell him that I'm a grown ass man, who still wants…still needs to hear "atta job sport," from a man, more of a father to me than my own ever was.

This guy…sitting across from me, was a frigging Marine.

So I swallow, and I contemplate, and I ponder countries that don't have extradition agreements.

But then I'm talking, and I don't even mean to. It's like I can't help it. I'm trained to talk when this man asks. I'm not trained not to talk when this man asks. So I take in a deep breath, and I open my mouth.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, knowing that the no apologies rule has no bearing right now. "I did hear you, and I did it anyway…that was my bad, I get it. It won't happen again."

Gibbs sighed.

Not his usual, I've only had eight coffees and I'm going to kill someone sigh, but a deep…pent up exhalation. I shrink back, not being able to read this sigh. I'm pretty good at gauging both the verbal and non verbal nuances that make up this man, but that sigh…is not one I'm familiar with. I think, maybe, it's a combination of different sighs.

His angry one, his exasperated one…and his sad one?

Why would he be sad?

Familiar insecurities suddenly grip me, and I stare down at my hands.

Is he sad because I…survived? Is he sad because he still has me for a senior field agent? And not some hot shot, brains to burn replacement from Stanford or some place? I feel myself redden, and gaze even more ferociously at my twitching hands.

Before I can analyse these thoughts any further, his voice is wafting over me once again.

"I know what you did Tony," he's muttering, "I want to know why you did it." He paused, and I know he's running those eyes over my downwards, slumped poise. "Tony…" he continues quietly, "I need you to look at me son."

I still.

It's not unusual for Gibbs to call me son, or Tim for that matter. His endearments are often rare, but that one is certainly the most frequent. Although it's an Americanism as old as Columbus himself, the warm, fuzzy feeling that stirs inside me when I hear it, always remains the same.

Always.

I look up. I look up slowly and chew my lip as his gaze never leaves my face. I don't know what to say. On one hand, I know he'll know if he doesn't get the truth. And I know he deserves the truth. On the other, I don't let people in. Ever.

Yet…Gibbs had rapidly, and continued in such rapidity to knock down my walls. He's still staring, and I find my lips parting. The truth is coming, I can feel it. I can feel the factual words sliding up my throat, working their way towards their escape. I can't even clamp down on them, they're pushing and steaming ahead of their own accord.

Like they always did, where the man across from me was concerned.

"I…I just…" I trail off, my face resembling the most sun kissed of beet as he stares at me studiously.

"You just, what?" he prompts, when he sees that the words are stalled in my windpipe, that they're halted in their gate. The minute he prompts, the words are loosened by his tone. As if it were some form of lubricant, and they're trundling again. Shooting out of my mouth before I could muster the good sense to shove them back in.

"I guess…I just…wanted you to be proud of me," I whisper awkwardly, feeling sick to my stomach in apprehension of the oncoming scorn fest I'm sure is coming my way. His face is blank, impassive as he digests my muted words. He doesn't speak for a moment, merely pondering me thoughtfully, his hands running absently over the arm rest of his chair.

"You wanted me to be proud of you?" he eventually murmurs questioningly, his head tilted towards me.

I chew my lip and berate them for being drunk at the wheel. They were supposed to be damned the goal keepers of my brain, and they were letting in own goals, left right and centre. I try and school my face into nonchalance, and jerk my shoulders in self deprecating chagrin. But…it's a half-hearted attempt. Anyone else, and I would have pulled out the charm, deflected their attention, removed the openness I had created.

There was no point in any of that, now.

Not with Gibbs.

I eventually settle for an affirmative nod, returning my gaze downwards.

This, was potentially, the most mortifying experience of my NCIS based existence. And that includes that time I accidently tripped naked from the mens showers into a communal area. I push that sudden flashback from my mind with the stern reminder that in the physique department, I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

He's talking again, and my eyes swivel up of their own accord.

"Tony…" he pauses, and pinched the bridge of his nose, "do you realise, that there is not one person on my team that I'm not proud of?" His eyes are brimming with some untold emotion, as I stare blankly back at him.

Before I'm burdened with the task of finding some reply, he continues.

"Aw hell, DiNozzo…are you really going to make go all Oprah on your ass right now?"

…wait, he knows…Oprah?

My confusion as to this astounding fact, must have been misinterpreted, as he sighed in defeat.

"Fine," he mutters, with a certain tinge to his own hue. "I'm…proud of you, all the time. Not especially today, or especially yesterday. All the time. You don't need to pull this hair brained, half assed stunts of yours to get my approval, Tony."

His voice was getting a bit firmer, and I swallow nervously.

"You were handpicked, by me."

He stares intently at me.

"Any time that another suicidal idea to make me go all warm and fuzzy crosses your mind, would you please just remember that fact. Because, I swear, if the next MacGyver stunt doesn't kill you…I will. You got that?"

…wait, he knows…MacGyver?

My confusion as to this astounding fact, must again have been misinterpreted, as he again sighed in defeat.

"Tony!" he barks, and I jolt back into the present moment. "I asked have you got that?"

My head bobs up and down as if for apples, as my eyes widen of their own accord. "I got it, boss," I reply quietly, feeling vaguely warm and fuzzy myself. Boss man is proud of me. I shake my head in chagrin. A small part of me already knew that, and I just had to go ahead and test that theory out.

Like a damned kid that just had to take apart a radio, to see what was inside.

He's running his hands through his hair, and I groan internally. That's a sure sign that's he's getting close to dispensing with the talking part of affairs. Though, in all actuality, this particular talking point hadn't been all that bad.

Oh wait…he's not done.

"You do not disobey me in the field like that," he snaps, sounding much more Gibbs-ish. "You do not place yourself in reckless, heedless and pointless danger ever again. I don't care what information that piece of filth may or may not have had, we would have got it eventually anyway. You had no business throwing yourself in after him, and you definitely had no business pointedly ignoring me when I shouted at you not to."

I flinch, and he takes a breath.

"Do you understand me?" he demands calmly, and I nod my head as fervently as all kinds of possible.

"Yes boss," I hear myself squawking, before groaning and looking back down at the floor. I have a nice voice, a very pleasant voice actually, if I do say so myself. But…when I'm being yelled at, it instantly goes all high pitched and squeaky. Before I could lament further on tones and the like, I note that he's not done.

"You let me down," he says quietly, and my stomach plummets. "But more importantly, you let yourself down out there. Tony…" he rubs his face in frustration and I feel even worse. "This job…is damned well dangerous enough without treating your life like a joke. You're a great agent, with great instincts and reflexes…but, if you push your luck too far, reality's gonna bite you in the ass. You hear me?"

I nod mutely.

I heard. I heard as well as if he'd roared it from the rooftops.

"I don't ever want to be in a position again, where I have to watch you in jeopardy. Needless jeopardy, and not be able to do a damned thing. I don't ever want to have Tim or Ziva in a position where they have to watch their teammate nearly drown, and not be in a position to help. You knew we literally were struggling to keep both the perps and the victims' safe, and you did what you did anyway. Knowing you had no back up, and using that fact to your advantage."

If there was ever to be a sinkhole in urban DC, I would give my life's savings for it to happen now.

Right now.

So I could throw myself in it, and never be seen again. The guilt was writhing around my stomach, as I placed myself in their shoes.

God…I was a selfish ass.

"Do you hear me, Tony?" Gibbs thundered suddenly, breaking through my sinkhole wishes. Nodding instantly, I study my nail beds and offer a very subdued "yes boss, I hear you."

He nods slowly, and studies me silently. Suddenly, he stands and motions for me to do the same. I comply, surprised slightly by the strong supportive nature of my knees. Usually they all but knocked together with nerves in apprehension of what I knew was coming. But now…they operated to their fullest capabilities.

Hell, even my knees knew I deserved what I was about to get.

He's moving closer to me now, and I brace myself.

His gentle hand under my chin, tipping it upwards is therefore a bit of a surprise and it shows in my eyes. He runs a gaze over me, and I stare silently. "You…drive me crazy," he suddenly ground out, "I'm tempted to kill you myself at least once a day. But…I will do whatever it takes to keep you around, and safe. Even from yourself. Which is why you're about to get your butt roasted. Not because I'm angry, but because I need you to learn that your life is just as damned valuable as the next guys'."

He removed his hand, and took in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with such sentimental speeches, because his next actions were considerably gruffer. As his hands moves towards his belt, I took a deep breath of my own and gestured towards the sofa, the arm rest of which had supported my torso as my ass was torn up more times than I care to remember.

His simple nod, and the sleek removal of the leather belt answered me.

I make to move towards my own doom, but he suddenly reaches out and catches my arm. Ruffling a hand through my hair, the part where he usually slaps, he looks at me seriously. "Do not make me do this again, for this reason, ever again son. You understand me?"

His tone is gentle again, and the guilt within me reaches the damned stars.

Nodding firmly, I manage to croak out the requisite "yes boss," and he releases me. I stride to the couch in record time, desperate to get the whole ordeal over and done with. Behind me, I can hear him shrug out of his suit jacket as I bend myself over the arm rest, despondent at how familiar the position is. Grabbing an equally familiar cushion, I bury my face in it and brace myself.

The sounds of the belt doubling over in his hand are oddly magnified, but before I can process the apprehension that comes with it, a warm hand is placed on my back. I'm never sure if that hand is supposed to be restraining, or comforting, though over time I guess I've learned it's both.

The air is sliced, and all of a sudden there's a loud crack.

As usual, the pain doesn't register straight away.

Just the crack.

…two milliseconds later, the pain does register, and I hiss involuntarily. Before I could even get over the stinging pain of the first lick, the second descends, and I sink further into the cushion. Gibbs isn't holding back, and I know that sitting is off the agenda for quite a while. I clench my teeth as a particularly fierce blow lands directly on its predecessor, and nearly inhale a mouthful of cushion as I try to suppress the yelp of pain.

But as the next stripe lands, I don't even have the awareness to care if God or Beast heard me.

The yelp come whimper was torn out of my throat, and the hand instinctively pressed down firmer upon my back. Before I could completely recover from the surging pain spreading across my backside, another lick fell, and then another. To my shame, tears sprang up in my eyes. Gibbs' belt was old school, made from heavy, thick leather.

The kind, that when careered against your butt at speed, tended to make an impression.

A strangled, "boss…I'm sorry….please," escaped me before I could help it, and my facial cheeks turned nearly as bright as their butt counterparts. I had every intention, every intention, of taking this punishment like a man.

Quietly.

But…I just can't help it. The pain was clinging to every imaginable surface, and there was no escaping it. Literally, no escaping it. Because the hand on my back was effectively blocking my irrepressible squirming.

The tears are dangerously close to the rims of my eyes now.

I blink, and yelp at the same time as the next one catches me on the under curve, and they're streaming down my face. I've been strapped before, many times before, but this is definitely in the top five of painful. I might realise, later, that the other four had something to do with me risking my neck, needlessly, as well.

My shoulders are shaking with quiet sobbing now, and I could almost swear I heard a reluctant grunt behind me, as the belt fell yet again. My thin sweats that I threw on in the changing room, after Ducky's prodding and poking, are doing nothing to stem the onslaught. I send a silent prayer, accompanied by yelps and whimpers that I wouldn't be told to drop them.

That would really suck.

Just as I was thinking that awful thought, five rapid, forceful licks caught me one after the other on my sit spots. Abandoning all pretence at stoicism, I sob into the cushion that already holds a wealth of my sorrow, and lay limply over the arm rest. I can feel my torso deflate, as the pain soars up into nearly intolerable levels.

When he spoke, I expected to be ordered to stand and lose the pants.

However, just one, rather gentle word was spoken.

"Up."

I draw in a raggedy breath, and coughed heavily into the pillow. I don't…I don't want Gibbs to see me like this. All red and puffy eyed, and generally the pinnacle of misery. However, I don't get much choice in the matter. I barely register a dull thud, as the belt was thrown down, and gentle hands pulling me softly from my perch.

Swaying slightly, wincing as the pain seemed to increase, I whimper where I stand.

I find my voice, albeit a croaky and broken one, and fix a very sad, concerned looking Gibbs with a watery stare. "Is…is that it?" I hiccough, swiping a hand across my face in confusion. Getting away with a fully clothed, albeit scorching rear end, was not something I'd pictured in today's…discussion.

He keeps a hand on my shoulders, and eyes my studiously.

"You learn your lesson, Tony?" he asks gently, and I blink rapidly in response.

…I'm pretty I sure I just learned all the lessons in all the world, as I nod my head slowly.

"Yes boss," I mumble quietly, resisting the urge to reach back and rub some of the evil sting out of my poor, besieged rear. He smiles softly at me then, and crooks his finger in my direction. I step forwards tentatively, hissing as the action causes my butt to enflame further. But…all that is forgotten, as he draws me into his arms, for a rare hug, and holds me tightly to him.

Resting my head on his shoulder, he holds me tighter still, and speaks very softly, but I catch every syllable.

"Then that's it, son, that's it."

…

A/N: Nervous, very nervous, author alert! I have never, ever written in the first person before, and tbh, I'm not sure what possessed me to write this. I just found myself starting and couldn't stop, it's a very different writing experience to third person, and I have to say, I really enjoyed it. It's just a one shot for now, I think…I don't know!

Anyways, hope you enjoyed! As it's my first, first person, I'd be very grateful if you could let me know what you guy's thought!

(This is unrelated to any other of my NCIS fics!)

-Inks.