Blue on Red – for kaekoa

By cascadewaters/snowfire

Rated PG-13

Disclaimer: Spike is very, very glad that I do not own him. Just sayin'.

Warnings: Disciplinary spanking (paddle) of an adult by his boss

A/N: Happy birthday—I hope this is close to what you wanted!

I kind of know that the 'we're so glad you're not dead' thing can only last so long, but when Sarge swaps my second beer for decaf coffee with a casual, "Now, now, we want him relaxed, not numb," and a significant *look* when he catches my eye, I suck in a breath and bite the inside of my cheek. I've been in trouble with Sarge before, but never *in trouble* with him, if you know what I mean; Eddie's always been the one to… address things personally with me, and while that's never fun, at least I have a reasonable idea of what to expect there. With Sarge… I don't know. And not knowing makes me very nervous. We usually think of Sarge as the 'nice' one, and Sam would probably be pretty cocky right about now that everything will be peachy, but I can't afford to bank on that.

I'm not really surprised, then, when the boss puts me in his car and drives me to his place instead of mine. His kid is on a camping trip, so it's just the two of us, and as Parker fixes fajitas for us, I wonder if this is how he talks to Dean every day; I have to admit to myself that the gentle tones, the soft smiles, the corny attempts at being funny are nice. I know that my pops loved me, but most of our conversations were loud and rough, so this is a nice change… if a little unnerving.

Dinner is good, and so is the shower he sends me to afterward, to wash off the day. When I come out, expecting to just redress, I find that my clothes and gear are gone, and there are fresh shorts and sweats on the bed. I get dressed and pad out into the living room to ask about my stuff, and Sarge's look shuts me up. He's sitting on one of the barstools, his fingers laced together as he waits for me, and next to him on the bar sit my cell phone, a spiral notebook, a pen… and a blue wooden paddle with 'It's a Whacky Story' in yellow letters. The paddle isn't, like, a cricket bat or anything, but it's also definitely not a ping pong paddle; it's about a third of an inch thick, shaped like a frat paddle but not as long, and the grip is wrapped in what looks like neoprene. I realize that I've fixated on it, but I can't entirely help that, and I hear myself, slightly insanely, asking about the words on the paddle's face.

"The first time Dean tried to talk his way out of serious trouble, he opened with that. I couldn't resist."

My eyes snap up to the boss's face, and I know that I'm sort of gaping at him, but man! I wouldn't have pegged Sarge as the psychological-weapon type, but there ya go. He watches me, a sort of sad half-smile on his face, and softly asks me to come to him so that we can 'get this out of the way.' I obey mechanically, trying to tear my eyes away from the blue instrument of my impending doom. I can't help but hope that psychological weaponry is all it is tonight, but somehow, I don't think so.

When I do manage to look at him, he holds out my BlackBerry. "First off, why don't you call your mom; she's been trying to get hold of you, and I'm sure that she's been worrying all day. I think it'd be good for you to settle her mind. It's up to you, what you tell her, but I do want you to let her know not to expect you home for the next couple of days."

I gulp, wondering exactly what that means (and exactly how bad this is gonna be,) but I take the phone and call my mom, and when I decide to bite the bullet and just tell her how I used her as a smokescreen for my choices, I see the boss giving me a proud look, and that feels good… much better than my mom's reaction to my confession, which makes me wince. Whenever I do get home, I'm probably gonna take some flack from her. Joy.

When I've finished with the call, the boss takes the phone from me and puts it on the counter behind the bar. "You won't be needing that for the next couple of days. In fact, you won't need any gadgets; I think a little break would do you good." I open my mouth to protest—seriously, he's grounding me from my own electronics? What am I, fifteen?—but his expression stops my protests. I'm still looking at the boss, but there's something steely in his eyes, something I've never seen before, and my heart speeds up. "Now, let's talk about what happened today."

He has me walk him through my choices, using the spiral and pen to make a list, which he shows me when he's finished. "So, basically, you lied by implication so that no one would know where you were or why, deliberately letting us believe that your mom needed you, and about a matter that almost directly involved and could have emotionally compromised a teammate; and when your supervising officer gave you a direct order, repeatedly, to stand down during the confrontation, you ignored those orders so that you could indulge in threats and verbal grandstanding. Am I missing anything?"

Much as I'd like to, I can't really argue with his conclusions, but I feel honor-bound to add that I spent time aiding and abetting criminals. He shakes his head and waves a hand to shut me up, locks eyes with me, and firmly tells me that I am not in trouble for doing what I could to keep myself, the subject, and the hostage alive and functioning, or for the way in which I alerted my team and how I kept a secondary subject engaged in communication until he could be neutralized. He tells me that I kept my head in a frightening situation and used my wits to protect everyone involved, and he's proud of me for that. Then he takes my chin so that I can't turn away, and he tells me that everyone is so glad that I'm okay and back with them, and that not one person on Team One would not be emotionally compromised if they lost me.

That nearly breaks me. I can feel my eyes and nose burning with the sudden pressure of hot tears, and I work to subdue the reaction.

Sarge sees, and he gives me a moment before he has me look at the list myself. I don't have anything else to add, and he nods shortly, satisfied, and then asks me to drop trou while he turns on the stool so that his back is to the bar. I swallow hard again, but I'm not shocked—this is SOP with Eddie, too, and I think I get why—so I slowly comply. Unlike Ed, who always puts some sort of time limit on the build-up, Sarge seems content to let me work through the reality of this on my own time; I'm not really sure whether that's a good thing or not.

With the borrowed sweatpants around my knees, he guides me between his knees and then over his left thigh; he pulls down the shorts, and then tells me that this part is for the lie, which was a lie regardless of technicalities, and that he sincerely hopes that this will be the only time we'll have to discuss lying. He puts his left hand on my back and tells me to tell him when I'm ready, which sounds kindly but, let me tell ya, is not actually doing me any favors; and it's not that he's uncertain or uncomfortable or not feeling like he's in control here. Oh, no, he does it on purpose, whether to soothe me or to psych me out. I mean, seriously, *I'm* supposed to tell *him* when I feel like letting him light a fire in my butt? And at that moment, I have no doubt whatsoever that he can and will light a fire—nothing about this version of the boss says 'soft' or 'teddy-bearish.'

I do what any sane person would do—I stall. I spend some time working on my breathing, a minute working on my fantasy hockey roster, another minute wondering how he'd seasoned the beef for the fajitas… and he lets me, just as quiet and patient as you please, not so much as twitching. And I realize that I can't stand this anymore. I don't *want* this to happen at all, but I do feel kind of low for what I put everyone through, and if this is gonna happen, I want it done. I nod, but nothing happens, and I realize that he's going to make me say it. "Boss, I… Can we just do it? Please?"

"Okay, then," he responds, and I feel a small shift… and then a surprisingly heavy hand cracks down on my backside. He lights me up but good, with just his hand, not missing so much as a centimeter of my poor butt. Between that and thinking about how my misleading left my team scrambling for hours and could have ended so much worse, it doesn't take long for me to break down in (mostly quiet) sobs. When it feels like my nerve endings are about to give up on me, he stops, and he rubs my back laterally for a couple of minutes before pulling up my clothes, standing me up, and turning me into a warm hug. It only lasts a few seconds, but it feels nice. And then he tells me that he'd like for me to go wash and dry the dishes and think about the importance of obeying orders, since this isn't the first time I've had an issue with insubordination.

As I go around the bar and into the kitchen to do the dishes, with my eyes and my backside burning, I'm relieved that he didn't use the paddle. I'd like to think that it's there for subconscious reinforcement. Unfortunately, every time I glance up, it's *still* there on the bar, and he's still there on the stool, silent, waiting patiently. I wash every piece twice, and my hands are red and wrinkled from the hot water when I start to carefully dry everything. I draw out the process as long as I can, but eventually, everything is clean and back in its place (including the cookware,) the sink and counter are gleaming, and there's nothing left to serve as a distraction. My backside is still hurting, and the sting has turned into a burn, but the burn is significantly less intense now than it was to start. I know that I'll be at least tender in the morning, still, but it's something, right?

When I take myself back to Parker's side, he nods, arms folded over his chest, thanks me, and asks what I'm thinking now. Not really thinking about whether it's a good idea, I toss out, "Wondering how fast I can get to the elevators from here?"

"Oh, just slightly faster than me; you wouldn't make it out of the building, though, my friend, I can promise you that. You can try it if you really feel the need."

I gulp, wondering how he sounds so calm and certain and not at all joking about that. He must see the question in my eyes, because he almost smirks as he says, "Teenage son." Then he asks me to tell him what conclusions I've formed about disobeying orders, and I find myself admitting that I was actually trying *not* to think about that as I was working on the dishes. He gives me a nod, disappointed but not surprised, and sends me to stand at attention in a particular corner. I'm humiliated at this—I don't know why, it's not exactly the first time I've been put in the corner during a disciplinary session—and I start to argue, but he raises one eyebrow, and the salsa I ate with dinner offers to come back up. I turn and take myself to the corner, as he tells me that I've made a good choice (wait, did Eddie, like, give him a checklist or something?) and asks me to think seriously about the importance of obeying orders and the possible, and real, consequences of not doing so. To my own surprise, I actually do so, and when he invites me out of the corner, I'm a lot less inclined to joke around, and I'm ready when he starts the conversation. He has me tell him about chains of command and the reasons for giving and obeying orders in the field, and what I should have done when the team breached the scene. He asks me to explain why I didn't listen, and why this seems to be a recurring theme with me, and I give it my best shot, considering that I can't entirely explain it myself.

He's not thrilled with that, and he encourages me to figure it out, and then he maneuvers me back to the spot between his knees and tells me to drop trou again. I'm pretty sure I whimper at that, but he gives me a look and I remember what we were just talking about, so I obey, and he puts me back over his left thigh and bares me again. He lays his left arm across my back as I dangle there, and he sounds kind of sad as he says that we've had this problem again and he's going to do his level best to make sure that we don't have it again, and he suggests that I do the same, because there's more than one way for him to lose me, and none of those ways is acceptable.

And he is very, very sincere about that—wanting it done, and not having expected another round, I impatiently tell him to start, and I feel him clamp my legs between his and shift, and then something that is definitely *not* his hand slams into my butt, down low, where my glutes and thighs meet. I'd shoot straight up if not for his arm, and I know that I yell. Washing the dishes and standing in the corner gave all of my nerve endings enough time to wake up again, and now they're blazing! And he doesn't stop—he whacks that evil thing down all over my butt, past the point where I'm absolutely sure that I will never sit again, and I'm so busy hanging there and sobbing like a little girl that I don't even realize at first when he's stopped whacking my backside, fixed my clothes, and started rubbing my back. He keeps rubbing as I try to gather whatever's left of my wits and dignity, which takes way too long. I'm sure his leg must be totally numb by the time I try to lever myself upright, and he lets me, keeping his legs clamped until he's sure that I won't fall over. I can't look at him; I scrub at and then cover my face.

That does nothing to deter Sarge; he just turns me to face him and folds me back into his arms, this time holding on. I wind up crying some more, this time into his shoulder, as he rubs my back and murmurs in my ear that he's proud of me and that he's so glad he stole me for his team. By the time I'm settled again, I'm starting to get tired, even though it's ridiculously early. When I finally pull back out of the embrace, he informs me that I'm suspended for the next couple of days and will be staying at his place, sans anything that requires charging, and that I'll be filling my time with writing a very detailed report about everything that happened today, from the time I clocked in to right now. He says he wants me to include the discipline and our conversation, so that I can see in in black and white. I make a face at that, but he just calmly raises an eyebrow, and I know better than to argue. When I keep my thoughts to myself, he nods approvingly and says that I can go on to bed in Dean's room, or I can stay up with him for an hour or so; that doesn't sound threatening or anything, but I really am tired, and even thinking about sitting makes the burning throb flare up. I tell him that I'd rather crash, and he tousles my damp spikes and pulls my head forward to kiss my forehead. He tells me to sleep well and to come to him if I need him, and both sound like actual orders. I settle into bed, missing my phone and laptop and Kindle, but I'm asleep pretty quickly, and him checking on me might or might not be a dream.

The next couple of days are Not Fun, for my backside or my hand, or my delusions of rightness, but the quiet is kind of nice. Some of the time, anyway. I am so tempted to hunt down my gadgets, just on principle, but something about the memory of the boss implying that Dean had tried to run—once—makes me think that principle just might not be a good enough reason to justify risking Sarge's irritation. It takes a long time, mostly because I keep getting agitated and stopping, but I write the whole report; writing about the… punishment… is the toughest part, because it's really hard to make something like that sound clinical, especially when you're still feeling it and still embarrassed about it. I suppose that's the point, though, and that's probably fair; I just hope that no one else will read this. And if you do, please don't hold it against me, okay? Give a bomb guy a break?