She was lying awake in bed not wanting to sleep for fear of the nightmares that she knew would come as they had every night since she got home. The memories of Africa would not die easily…
Her time in Somalia had been spent painfully, and she eventually decided that whoever it was that said time flies was a fool. Time marched forward at the steady pace of a slug in Somalia. When she wasn't being interrogated she spent her aching solitude in bittersweet reverie. Had there ever really been an idle moment back at NCIS? Trapped and tied with a sack warding off the light like she was a bird sent to sleep, it didn't seem like there had been, but she tried not to think about it.
It was almost funny how the less she thought about things in her waking hours, the more vivid her dreams became. The dreams were simply memories tantalizingly replaying themselves in her sleep, and she knew this, but she hadn't the heart to deny herself the escape, however false it might have been.
It might have surprised her how true to reality her dreams were if she thought about it. She didn't. She just patiently waited for the days of questions and beatings to crawl by so she could escape to the familiar landscape and faces of DC. She dreamt of Jenny, who she would never be able to thank for bringing her to NCIS.
She dreamt of Gibbs (she'd never more appreciated a smack to the back of her head.)
She dreamt of McGee, who'd been kind to her from the start.
She dreamt of Abby, who'd taken so long to win over.
She dreamt of Ducky and his long-winded stories that she couldn't help but smile at.
She dreamt of Tony and the ceaseless banter that became a daily dance that they both knew by heart... She admittedly dreamt of Tony most of all. The charming grins that came to him so easily, the sweet nothings wrapped in lighthearted jabs, the almost thin walls of silliness that hid such a big heart.
Hadn't she been angry with him? Hadn't he done something to make her leave? Michael... But Tony. Would he really have done anything out of jealousy or out of spite? No, not Tony DiNozzo. Never. What had made her think so? Did it matter now? Would he forgive her for her unforgiving reactions? Would she ever get the chance to find out?
This is what had been running through her head when she was suddenly dragged to another room. She had heard the voices without caring whose they were. The sack was removed, and she had come face to face with the one man who could answer her. A purposefully haphazard hero who knew exactly what to say;
"How's your summer?"
The tears had already been stinging her eyes, but it almost made her cry outright.
… She recalled the smile he had managed for her even in that hell hole, and even in memory it was contagious as it had always been. She shut her eyes and fell asleep.
Ziva David slept well that night.