Gibbs stepped into the interrogation room where Tim was waiting for him. The younger man leapt to his feet, toppling his chair over with a loud clatter in his haste. He was very pale, and his hands were shaking.

But he managed to meet his eyes as he stammered, 'Boss... I'm so, so sorry...'

Gibbs nodded, acknowledging the genuine contrition but not faltering in his determination to punish him as harshly as he'd warned him to expect. Tim needed him to be consistent, to not make idle threats. And he needed to know that serious misbehaviour would have serious consequences. Besides, Tim could handle it. He was sensitive, but he wasn't weak.

He moved farther into the small room. He could tell the moment that Tim caught sight of the object in his hand. Tim turned impossibly more pale, in eyes widening in terror. He took a step back, nearly tripping over the tipped-over chair, staring at it in confusion for a moment before once again fixing his eyes fearfully on the heavy leather strap.

He pressed his lips together, voicelessly forming the first syllable of a desperate plea before stopping himself with visible effort. But, even though it was not said aloud, Gibbs could hear the 'Please don't make me do this, Boss' as clearly as if the words had indeed been spoken.

Gibbs gave him a moment to pull himself together. He watched as Tim gulped frantically for air a few times and shut his eyes, balling his hands into fists. He was about to speak, to order the panicked younger man into position, when Tim opened his eyes, nodded, and turned towards the table.

He felt a surge of pride as Tim started to lean forward, but he interrupted him gently.

'I told you what would happen, next time, Tim.'

Tim turned back towards him, astonishment and horror plainly legible in his features. He clearly knew exactly what Gibbs meant, and just as clearly had convinced himself that it wasn't going to happen. His eyes glistened as they darted between his boss's solemn expression and the strap he carried. Again, he said nothing. After a moment, a few silent tears trailed down his cheeks.

Gibbs waited without comment until Tim faced the table once more and slowly unfastened his belt and fumbled with his fly and button. A long moment passed before he let his trousers fall to his knees. He stood there, in his boxers, trembling slightly.

'Shorts too, Tim,' Gibbs prompted quietly.

Again, it took Tim a moment to comply, his hands faltering at his hips before resolutely shoving his underwear down his legs and bending over the table. He sobbed quietly into his folded arms.

Gibbs moved quickly to his side, not wanting to drag things out any longer for his distraught agent. As he drew his hand back for the first lash, a flash of memory surged into his mind.

*flashback*

'What the hell were you thinking, Probie?!'

'I got the job done, didn't I, Mike?'

Franks slammed the door shut, sealing off the small NCIS office from the rest of base headquarters at Camp Pendleton.

'Going in, against orders, without backup, is not doing the damn job, Gibbs!'

'If I'd waited...'

'You want to get yourself killed, you get your fool ass back to the Marines. You want to work for me, you follow my orders and you don't take boneheaded risks like that stunt this afternoon.'

'I didn't have any choice...'

'Bullshit! You could have done what I damn well told you to do!'

'But...'

Franks's voice was gentler as he continued, 'Getting yourself killed isn't gonna bring 'em back, Gunny. And it's not what they would want you to do.'

Gibbs felt a flash of anger.

'It's not about them, Mike...'

'Then get your head on straight, Probie. In the meantime, get your ass over here.'

Franks hauled open the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out an old-fashioned leather strap, like Gibbs remembered from his school days. It was made of two thick pieces of black leather, sewn together with stitches that once had been white. The fact that it had been made for no other purpose than the infliction of pain made it seem much more menacing than a belt. Gibbs wondered for a fraction of a second where Franks had acquired the relic.

Then his brain moved on to the prospect of being on the wrong end of the thing. He felt his mouth go dry and his heart-rate sped up. From anger and outrage, he told himself.

'What the hell...?'

'Oh, I think you know what this is for.'

'There is No. Way. In. Hell. that you're using that on me!'

'Oh, yes, I am! Unless you can tell me that you didn't do the same damn thing when one of your men needed a little reminder about following orders in the field.'

'Sure, I took my belt to my Marines when they needed it. But I haven't been...'

'I don't give a damn how long it's been, Probie,' Franks spat out, his emphasis on the last word making it very clear that Gibbs had better get used to not being the Gunny in charge of discipline.

'C'mon, Mike, I'm not some kid...'

'You damn sure acted like one out there today!'

'I'm not gonna let you...'

'It's not your call, Probie. Just like it wasn't your call, this afternoon. You work for me, you obey me. You don't, you take the consequences.'

'Mike...'

'We're done talking.'

The two men exchanged hard looks for a long moment. Finally, Gibbs sighed and turned around, bracing himself on the desk.

It had been years since he'd climbed high enough up the non-comm ranks not to find himself in this position, years since he'd become accustomed to being the one wielding the belt. It wasn't easy for him to accept that he was once again a novice in an unaccustomed role, in need of supervision and training, and in need of discipline to reinforce those lessons. He hadn't expected to find himself on the other end of a belt... or strap... again.

But he was still enough of a soldier to follow an order that he didn't like, and he had to admit that his earlier ignoring of the chain of command had earned him the reprimand. And he respected Mike, and not just as a CO. And he knew Mike wasn't the kind of man to insist on doing things by the book for form's sake; he'd been willing enough to let him see the file on the man who'd killed his family, knowing full well what would happen to the dirtbag afterwards. This wasn't about some abstract conception of the rules; it was about the real imperatives of this job. He had no excuse for not accepting his punishment, except that it would hurt... and he was a Marine.

'You don't really think you get to keep your pants on, do you Probie? Or is the Corps getting soft on green recruits who screw up? In my day...'

Franks trailed off as Gibbs angrily shoved his jeans down, shooting a mutinous look over his shoulder.

The whipping was long and hard. Gibbs ground his teeth together, biting back any acknowledgement that the strap hurt like hell. But Franks was relentless, bringing the heavy leather down hard on his ass, again and again, until he could no longer hold in his choked grunts and moans. When it finally stopped, he could barely replace his clothing without howling in pain at the contact with his tender skin, and he knew that sitting would be impossible.

*end flashback*

Taking a deep breath, Gibbs brought the strap down hard, painting a broad red stripe across Tim's pale skin.