Hi, everyone! I'm back! I've been working on "Game Night" this weekend. I hope that you've all had a chance to check it out - I loved writing about Jimmy for a change!

Thanks to fiftyshadeswritergal for her encouragement! And thanks to my reviewers - Troubled-Angel-26, Guest123 (thank you - that was a very kind, complimentary comment; I understand that spanking fics aren't everyone's forte, but I'm glad that you took the time to review anyway!), A (aww, thank you!), Guest, DS2010, KrisShannon, Fashionista-girl, Fan (thank you so much!), Tamara, fiftyshadeswritergal, and Dalm! It means so much to hear from everyone!

I hope that everyone enjoys this. This is more of a comfort chapter, and the next one will carry that sentiment as well. Just had to dive back to the echoing part. :)

Enjoy!

...

Ziva squirmed off of Gibbs' lap as quickly as possible. He helped, his hand that had spanked her now carefully lifting her. His other hand took hers, squeezing it. She yanked away, stumbling backward and bumping into an armchair.

"Easy, Ziver," Gibbs said softly, trying to stabilize her while she pulled away.

"No...ooo!" she gasped. She was not crying - Ziva hated crying. It was weak and pathetic. But the heavy breathing, the tiny gasps - that was not necessarily the sound of a hardened warrior. At least in her mind it was nowhere as bad as sobbing like a baby.

"Okay, okay," Gibbs said soothingly. "Relax."

"No!" Ziva resisted, moving backward and rubbing her bottom, still rather shocked by the sting.

"No rubbing," Gibbs said sternly. Ziva froze, surprised by the sudden change of tone again. "Good girl," he said softly, modulating his tone again as he saw her blink wildly to control her rising tears. "Rubbing is not allowed right after a spanking. Your bottom's stinging for a reason and you need to be thinking about that rather than how to get your backside to feel better."

Ziva frowned, but the expression was softened by the shine in her eyes. Gibbs could detect the restrained tears, brought on by the new experience and his own stern tone. It broke his heart. In fact, he was pretty sure that he was hurting as much emotionally as Ziva was physically. It was not irreparable, just very unpleasant in the moment.

"Come here," he told her softly. Ziva haltingly stepped toward him, wary of the location of his hands.

I think that we are in a pretty good place for this moment. It is, after all, her first spanking from me.

"I'm not giving you any more spanks," he assured her, slowly standing while making eye contact. He had been thinking of getting her to sit next to him, but had decided against it. Ziva was not Abby, who had to snuggle no matter how much her bottom hurt. She was not Tony, who was back to his joking and bringing up an old movie on the tv within minutes of being absolved of a guilty conscience, no matter how serious the paddling. She was not Tim, who would sit just to try to appear as tough as Tony, while simultaneously seeking assurance through Gibbs' actions that he was truly forgiven and accepted. Ziva was Ziva, and new to this. It was going to take time to figure out what strategy worked best for comforting the little spitfire. Making Ziva sit down would be seen as cruel to her when she had no emotional need to do so. She would only blame him for the extra hurt of having to sit.

Ziva finally moved next to him, but her eyes were down. Gibbs gently reached out and tipped her chin upward.

"Hey, don't be ashamed," he whispered reassuringly. She looked away again. He did nothing to stop her, just touching her shoulder for a second as he whispered, "Everyone's been disciplined at some point, Ziver. You took your spanking really well. I'm proud of you."

...

How could he be proud of me? He just spanked my bottom! And it actually hurt!

Ziva felt flushed with shame. Not only had she actually confessed - she, who had been taught to successfully lie whenever possible in hiding one's motives! - she had submitted to the discipline and been spanked like a little girl. She did not like herself very much in that moment.

"Do you want a hug?" Gibbs offered quietly. Ziva shook her head vehemently.

"May I go to my room?" she mumbled.

Gibbs watched her for a few moments, then nodded.

"I'll check on you in a little bit," he said, allowing her the space that she craved. She turned to the stairs and ran, ignoring the increased sting in her bottom as she did so.

I do not deserve comfort. I am weak. I am worthless. I am bad, Ziva scolded herself mentally. As was normal lately, her mind drifted to another spot. Another voice. She laid down on the bed just as the memories began their full assault, carrying her away from Gibbs' house to a time and place on the other side of the world, in what seemed a lifetime ago.

...

Teach her to obey. Teach her to be strong. There is no room in my family for anyone who is weak. Take her out and teach her a lesson. Be a man.

Ziva winced internally at the memory of the young officer being forced to drag her away, to punish her - it was one of the worst memories, the severity of the punishment having forever burned it into her memory. She had been only twelve or thirteen - possibly fourteen at most? She had failed at one of her father's early training exercises that he routinely forced her and Ari to complete.

As a young girl, Ziva had grown to dread failure, not just due to the heavy disappointment and censure that she saw in her adored Abba's eyes. She dreaded it because she then became a type of training exercise for official members of her father's teams - the administration of punishment - often a word that was code for torture. No, her father had not punished her himself. He had given that duty to those he wanted to toughen. Ziva's pain tolerance went up, accompanied by bruises and welts that lasted for days, sometimes a week or two. Meanwhile, the administrators of the "richly deserved punishment" went on to interrogate terrorists successfully in hidden rooms with darkened windows and "malfunctioning" cameras.

The heavy leather belt had snapped against bare skin. She could feel the swelling of the welts. Parts of her legs were numb from repeated strikes. Then he would change to a stinging rod that awoke difference senses of pain and the blessed numbness would disappear. A warm trickle of blood escaped from one mark. She breathed heavily, panting with the strikes, allowing her mind to escape to a different place.

She had not cried then. And later Abba had said that he was proud of her.

"You will do well for your country," he had praised, kissing her cheek and waiting for her to return the motion. Then he left her, going back to his office while she dragged herself to the bathroom to strip away the clothing that stuck to the battered skin, to wince as water touched the wounds, to refuse to use antibacterial soap because of how much it would hurt.

Later that night, Ari would sneak into her room.

"Shh," he would soothe her as the gentlest of touches on her back would make her gasp. He sat beside her, slowly pushing the blanket down so that he could assess the situation. He had studied enough doctor books already to know how to help, applying lotions as painlessly as possible as he attended to the welts while she shivered with cold and pain.

"You did not wash them with soap, Ziva?" he scolded, but he understood.

"I did not cry today," she whispered, proud of her achievement. Ari had not replied. It was when she sneaked a glance backward at his face as he examined her bleeding thighs, that she saw pure rage for the first time in her brother's eyes. She had inhaled in a quick gasp, scared by what she saw. He turned to her, seeing her shock, and immediately his expression transferred to one of love.

"I am sorry," he had whispered. He did not explain why.

Perhaps it was for many things.

And then, he had placed the blanket lovingly over his sister and sung a lullaby to her, one that her Imma had repeated so often when Ziva was little. Even though she was not his mother, Ari had heard his father's wife sing it to Ziva and had learned it to comfort the little sister that he worshiped.

...

Gibbs peered around the corner. Ziva was on her bed, asleep. Any of the other kids, he would have been happy they were resting. But seeing her twitch and jerk, he doubted that she was at rest. Wherever she was ...

Her head moved a little and he caught sight of the dampness of a single tear trail, an escapee as Ziva's eyes had fluttered shut.

Gibbs lifted his cellphone. He needed reinforcements for when she woke.

She might be physically safe in his house, but currently her mind was isolated from his protection.

...

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