Enough like Eton?

Disclaimer: They're not mine; I just play with them.

Summary: Tag to Lt. Jane Doe. Ducky feels guilty about withholding crucial information about a possible serial killing. Warning: spanking of adult. Don't like? Don't read!

A/N: This is part of the series that began with The Lesson. Special Agent Ali suggested ages ago that I should do 'all' the characters; not being one to turn down a dare, I decided to do just that. Ducky was problematic; this is what I came up with. Tag to Lt. Jane Doe (2x4).
Warning: this story contains the non-sexual spanking of an adult. If you are not comfortable with that, click on that 'back' button now. You've been warned. Seriously. Ducky. Spanking. If you keep reading and get squicked, I don't want to hear about it.

'Jethro?'

Ducky's voice from the top of the basement stairs wasn't a surprise. Gibbs had heard the older man come in. He still never locked his door; he didn't have anything worth stealing, and any burglar stupid enough to break into a house flying a Marine Corps banner from the front porch was welcome to take his chances. He paused in his sanding of his boat long enough to take a swig of his long-cold coffee, clearing the sawdust from his throat.

'Hi, Ducky. What's up?'

The ME occasionally dropped by for a friendly chat, but usually only after Gibbs had been injured. His not-so-subtle efforts to conduct his own examination of his long-time friend after the ER staff had had their turn were never commented on, but were quietly appreciated. It was Ducky's way of saying he cared.

Gibbs held out the bottle of bourbon he kept next to the paint stripper but wasn't terribly surprised when the older British gentleman shook his head.

'Now, if it had been whisky, it would have been another matter. 'Scotch', you know, my dear Jethro, is what people who aren't Scottish call the drink; no self-respecting graduate of Edinburgh Medical College would let such a word cross his lips. In a pinch, Canadian whisky, also known as 'rye' in that country, can be very nice. Traditionally, it is mixed with ginger ale, but it is quite pleasant on its own. And there is now a distillery in Cape Breton making a traditional Scottish-style single-malt whisky that is just lovely. Of course, they can't call it 'Scotch' because it is not from Scotland, but being from Nova Scotia rather makes one wonder if they couldn't just get away with it. It is aged in ice-wine barrels (the whisky, not Nova Scotia), much like Macallan is aged in the best sherry casks, and has a similar smoothness as a result. And, of course, it is always spelt without the 'e'; only its vastly inferior American cousin adds the extra letter. Which is odd, really, since it is usually the Queen's English that has extra letters. The 'u' in words like 'colour' and 'honour', for instance, or the 'o' in 'manoeuvre'. But, in this case...'

'Is that a 'no', Duck?'

'Ah, yes. That is, yes, that's a no, not yes, as in 'yes'.'

Gibbs bit back a smile at the eccentric speech patterns. He had long since gotten used to them, and sometimes even listened to the rambling stories. Like now, for instance. He would have to try to find a bottle of that Cape Scotia ice-whiskey or whatever it was for Ducky for his next birthday. He'd just tell his team that he didn't think they could locate it. That should work.

'Something I can do for you, Ducky?'

'Actually, yes, Jethro. I wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier today. It was inexcusable, not telling you about that trident carved on that poor girl's neck. It was unprofessional. It violated our friendship. I feel terrible...'

'You've already apologised, Doctor. There's nothing more you can do.'

'Jethro, if I were one of your agents, I wouldn't have been sitting down for the rest of the day.'

'If you were one of my agents, you wouldn't be sitting down for the rest of the week.'

'Yes, quite.'

There was a somewhat awkward pause, during which Gibbs continued to sand his boat and Ducky imitated a fish, opening his mouth several times but closing it without saying anything.

'What's on your mind, Ducky?'

'Just remembering the last time I was caned at Eton. It didn't even occur to me then that corporal punishment could be just as effective for grown men as it is for boys. But you've certainly proved that with your management of your team.'

Gibbs turned away from the boat and narrowed his eyes.

'Ducky, are you asking me to spank you?'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.'

'Why?'

'Because I need it.'

As bizarre as the situation was, Gibbs understood what the older man was trying to say. There were times when the easiest way to deal with the psychological pain that guilt could cause was with the physical pain of punishment. It wasn't the only way, but it was the fastest and sometimes the most effective. He met his friend's eyes, trying to gauge his seriousness. Satisfied with what he saw there, he crossed to his workbench and rummaged briefly among the odds and ends stored underneath it. Finding what he was looking for, he turned back towards the man who had been watching him curiously.

'Is this close enough to an Eton cane for you?'

He was holding a length of thin dowel – slimmer than his smallest finger, rigid but with a bit of give. It resembled more than anything the long wooden pointers that he remembered from his childhood. He saw a flash of fear in Ducky's eyes, and the muscles around his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

'Perfect.'

Taking a deep breath and removing his suit jacket, Ducky turned toward the boat and rested each of his hands on an exposed rib, leaning forward with the curve of the hull.

'Six strokes was the usual, Jethro.'

'Are you sure you want to do this?'

'Yes. I'm sure.'

Steeling himself for what he had to do, Gibbs raised his hand. He paused for a moment, unsure of how much force to use. He'd never wielded a cane before, and was afraid of either causing actual injury, or offending his friend by using too light a hand.

Thwack!

Gibbs flinched at the sound of the wooden rod on his friend's backside. Ducky winced, clenching his teeth together and gripping the wooden struts hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Thwack!

Thwack!

His eyes were squeezed shut and his breath was ragged but still he did not cry out.

Thwack!

Thwack!

Gibbs hesitated. Ducky was clearly in pain but he was still taking the flogging in stoic silence, no doubt ingrained by the rough justice of British public schools. Gibbs knew he had to push until the man's resolve broke. Administering a pre-determined number of blows was fine if all that mattered was a mathematical calculation of consequences. But the goal of giving Ducky emotional release could not be accomplished unless he took him beyond the limits of his endurance. He needed to truly feel that he had been punished, or he wouldn't be able to forgive himself and move on. Silently willing his friend to give in and stop being so damned stubborn, he raised the makeshift cane again.

Thwack!

Ducky flinched away from the rod and hissed sharply between his teeth.

Thwack!

A low grunt, as much of surprise as of pain, escaped from between the tightly closed lips of the prone figure.

Thwack!

'Ahhhhh!'

Finally drawing a cry of pain, Gibbs lowered his arm and turned around to give Ducky a modicum of privacy in which to compose himself. Replacing the dowel where he'd found it, he rearranged things on his workbench until he heard his friend's breathing return to normal.

'That was rather more than six, Jethro.'

'No point doing it unless it hurts, Duck.'

'Well, you've no need to worry on that account. I assure you, it did.'

'Always glad to help.'

'Yes. Thank you.'

Another pause, equally awkward.

'Well, I suppose I should be getting back to Mother.'

'You ok to drive?'

'Oh, yes. I'll be fine. Good night, Jethro.'

'Night, Duck.'

Retrieving his jacket from the bottom of the boat and shaking off the worst of the sawdust it had picked up, Ducky left Gibbs to his sanding.