"Tony can I speak to you?" I heard a man's voice from about ten feet away, and then footsteps. I did not recognize the voice for anything except the fact that it was American. He was speaking English and he had an accent much like that of the American President- Bush, I think?
I open my eyes to a small, cold room that I believe to be a hospital. A beeping noise at my right- a heart monitor- confirms my suspicion.
Tony- probably an American also, I have a small feeling that this name means something to me, something important, but I do not remember. It is distant, this feeling, as if it had been taken from me, stolen from my brain, like a precious stone burglarized from a jewelry shop.
I raise my hand up to my face to brush away some hair, several cuts and bruises cover my arm. I assume they were from an accident on the job, I must have screwed up, thrown an op, and got hurt in the process, but I do not recall having an assignment in America.
I look around my bed and find a pile of clothes sitting on a table to my left along with a badge- NCIS. My father told me great stories about a man he had known from NCIS- the assistant director, if I remember correctly. I open the leather ID case the badge is attached to.
I drop the case and it falls to the floor with a loud thump. A man comes running in- Italian maybe- and asks me what happened.
"Who are you?" I question him. He looks at me, worried- no, hurt, like I had broken a promise to him, like I had taken something he loved away from him. Tony. I don't know why, but something in me suggests that that is him, this man I know but do not know at the same time.
He puts his hand over mine in a possessive manner and I jerk away. Somehow he feels important to me, but I do not know why, I do not know him.
"Ziva," something in his voice was pleading, begging me to remember him. "Don't mess with me, please, I almost lost you." His brown eyes struggle not to tear as he speaks, and I feel guilty for what I say next, regardless of the fact that it is the truth.
"I am not messing with you, and I do not know that you "have" me. I am not yours, I do not remember you." He looks down in an attempt to cover the teardrops slowly streaming from his eyes, and I try to reconcile for my statement. "I am sorry, but I am sure, if you call my father- Eli David- he can sort this out, he is the director of Israeli Mossad, I work for him."
He is visibly distressed at that, so he stands up and mutters something I recognize only to be an American colloquialism for goodbye then walks out the door.
I see him through the window, speaking to a gray-haired man and a doctor before he leaves. The man turns around and looks at me through the window with sorrow in his eyes, and then a doctor walks into my room.
"Miss David, how are you doing?" She asks.
"Perfectly fine, I would just like to get home." I reply shortly.
"Well I don't see why that would be a problem, just as long as someone stays with you."
"Yes, I will ask a friend."
"Also, I have some medicine you should take for the pain in your head, and I'd like it if you didn't stay up too late, listen to loud music, or travel on an airplane so that you make a quick recovery and can get back to work."
"Actually, I cannot help but take a plane, in order to get back home. I live in Tel Aviv."
The doctor points at her clipboard while replying. "It says here that you live in Southern DC, have our records not been updated recently for you, Agent David?"
"How do you know where I work? And why do you have records of me?" I sit up suspiciously as I scout the room for defense weapons and escape routes. I did not think of the Americans as threatening people, to Israel, at least, but I was beginning to worry. There is no reason for an American doctor to know anything about me besides my blood-pressure.
"We have records of all our regular patients, including employment information. NCIS isn't exactly a top-secret organization. Are you sure you're alright, Miss David?"
NCIS? I do not work for NCIS. Or do I? The badge next to my bed says I do, maybe I have forgotten, maybe this head injury is worse than I have been told.
"Yes, I am alright. Is it possible, that because of the injury to my head I may have amnesia? I feel as if there are a few things I may have forgotten."
"It's possible. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"
"No."
"Is your memory a bit foggy?
"No, I would, however, be accused of treason in my country."
For that she looks at me strangely.
"Okay, what year is it?" She tries instead.
"2004." I respond.
"Okay, it may take a while, but your memory will come back in time. For now, go home, spend time with loved ones, listen to stories and look at pictures. It will help." She hands me a prescription and points towards the pile of clothes that I now presume are mine. Then she walks out and I get dressed and leave as well.
The man with gray-hair tells me his name is Gibbs and that I work for him at NCIS. He gives me a ride to a house that he explains is mine and waits outside until the man I now know to be Tony shows up in a red sports car.
Tony walks up to my door holding a bag of chinese food and rings the doorbell. I open the door cautiously, I do not know if I offended him the last time that we met or not.
He smiles at me and I feel relieved. "Chinese?" he asks, with a charming grin.
"Thank you."
He hands me the bag and walks in the door, straight to a shelf full of movies. He pulled a dvd case off the shelf and put the dvd in.
"Jaws, the first real classic. I figured we should start you off at the beginning." he explains.
"How do you mean, 'start me off'?"
"Movies, cinematic classics, American history, Ziva." I cannot tell if he is joking.
"What?"
"Just sit down and watch." he hands me the remote and walks into the kitchen. I sit down and press play. He walks back in a couple seconds later with two bottles of beer.
"Do you live with me? Are we married?" I ask him.
"What?"
"I blew you off and you continue to act like you care about me. You know where everything is in my house-"
"No." he cuts me off. "Not yet, sweet cheeks." he winks and hands me a beer, then picks up the remote to turn up the volume on the television.
I lean back against the couch and he puts his hand over mine. I do not move. I do not pull away. His hands are warm and strong. Something about his touch is strangely comforting, so I intertwine my fingers with his and rest my head on his shoulder. If he is not my husband he is something nearly as important to me- a man I trust and care for.
I may or may not write more depending on the response, favorite, follow, and review if you want more!
~A