The whispers are worse than the strap, honestly. The sounds of was it five or ten? can you count them? to it's the quiet ones innit? to best not cross him then. A mix of things that fill his head with noise as he leans in and takes his position as told by the sailing master himself.

He sucks in a slow, deep breath as Cotter raises his arm and it's with that lock-jawed idea of perfection, a professional fusser of all things, that he manages not to flinch. No, he won't flinch, not with his Captain watching. Crozier, watching. Their eyes meet and he keeps himself focused on the man, the lines of his face, the set of his brow, the tuft of hair pushed out of place by a winter cap, the stormy hazel of his eyes.

Three. Four. Each hit harder as Cotter warms up and each one making a muscle in Tom's jaw flex, tighten, grit. He won't flinch, he won't make a sound, he will simply take what he is due. There are more whispers - shock at the man's stillness, his quiet, his resolve. Something they know about him as it is, but in this light it brings an eerie pall upon the room.

Five, Six, Seven, Eight.

He keeps his hands flat on the table, his legs squared, his chest straight, eyes caught on Crozier's. This punishment has the Captain's name scribed beneath it, as though it's his hand that makes the strikes and not the strap. Part of him wants to climb over the table and tell him to hit him himself at this rate, that it would be more effective, help him better understand the level of the man's disappointment. The other wants to yell why, to rear against Cotter and the strap and the men watching this happen and for what? Reputation?

The fire roils behind grey-blue eyes, unblinking - the only change is the set of his jaw and the soft almost silent inhale at the tenth lash.