AN: Okay, well this was going to be shorter, but then... well, the second part hit me at work, so I HAD to write it down. Therefore, not as short as I was telling you it would be. I hope that you enjoy it, and please leave a review! They really do make my day :) And also, I'm not done with chapter 5 yet, so maybe reviews will make me finish it. Otherwise... well, I might not update next Sunday. It just depends on if I get inspiration for chapter 5...

Hope you all are having a great weekend :)

Blessings,

bookdiva


Four days ago, the young lieutenant and the man who called himself Ken had left the refugee camp, and Ziva was still caring for their friend… or whoever the injured man was. She still tended to her duties in the camp—she carried fresh water, helped secure permitters, translated for many of the languages, and played with the little children—but she always ended her day at this man's side.

She would fall asleep talking to him. She told him things she would never have the courage to say if he were conscious.

There was something about talking to the man—the idea that her words were bringing him some comfort—that eased an ache in her heart.

It was there—and only there—that Ziva allowed herself to speak of Tony. It was the only time when memories of Tony and her time in D.C. were not filled with regret, longing, and pain. Instead, the memories, stories, and anecdotes were full of the joy that can only be found with family.

"He became my best friend," she admitted to the unconscious man, four days after he had been brought to their camp. "At first I could not stand him," she continued, allowing herself a slight snort. "But the trust… it came gradually. Like a sea turtle." She smiled as she imagined Tony automatically correcting her idiom, and she almost missed the man's hand twitching.

Ziva held her breath, but as usual, nothing followed his slight movement. She couldn't help but sigh.

"I really wish you would wake up," she said softly, reaching out to touch his weathered hand. "I know… I know the pain is terrible," she said, struggling to keep her own memories at bay. "It is the kind of thing that keeps you up at night. It eats away at your soul. It plays in your mind, over and over and over."

She sighed again.

"But I also know that something was important enough for you to pull through. You held on to something. Whatever that was…" she trailed off and took a moment to collect herself. "Whatever that was, hold on to that now. Let that bring you back."

She sighed and rested her head down against the edge of the bed.

"You know more about me than pretty much anyone," she said, letting out a soft, humorless laugh. "And I don't even know your name."

Ziva couldn't help but smile as she turned away from the sleeping man to look out of the tent and up into the dark, desert sky.

"John Doe," she decided, remembering her days in the NCIS morgue with Ducky and Palmer with a bittersweet pang. "That is what I will call you. Until you can tell me what your name is truly."

A soft moan from behind her caused Ziva to whip around, and suddenly she was once again staring into the deepest blue eyes she had ever encountered.


The air around Ken was still and silent, until a single, sharp vibration broke the stillness. It startled him out of his thoughts.

For some reason, he just could not get the young man with the startling blue eyes out of his mind. They reminded him of another set of unique eyes—

The number on his SAT phone was unfamiliar, which was even more unexpected than the call itself. Given his line of work, Ken skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the point.

"How did you get this number?" he demanded, his tone firm and subtly threatening.

A brief memory of his ex-wife's running joke about his frankness—a trait he'd passed on to his daughter—flitted across his mind, but he pushed it away. Those thoughts did him no good.

"Many men have inquired after my methods," a familiar voice said. "Not many have discovered them."

Ken sighed.

"And those who have never lived to tell the tale," he finished this familiar greeting, dreading the possible news this woman could bring. "What's wrong Henrietta?"

"I am calling in a favor," came the terse answer.

Ken paused for a minute, suddenly realizing that Henrietta Lange sounded… almost… was it sad? Could she feel that emotion?

"It's not—" he began, the panic building up again.

"No," Hetty cut him off, and Ken let out a sigh of relief.

"Good." He paused again. "What do you need?"

"A body," she answered. As far as requests from Henrietta Lange went, it wasn't all that unusual.

"Do I want to know what for?" he joked, attempting to feel out her intentions.

"We lost an agent three weeks ago in Afghanistan," she continued, ignoring Ken's attempt at levity. "Well, not an agent," she clarified. "An LAPD detective."

Ken started.

"What the hell was an LAPD detective doing in Afghanistan?" Ken demanded, stunned that even Hetty could have sent someone without the training into a war zone.

"I assure you," Hetty said calmly, "he was a detective in title only. He had all the training and skill of my best agents. My elite team."

"Your A-team?" Ken said, feeling his heart drop to his toes at this implication. "He was—"

"Yes."

The answer was simple, but it said more than her words ever could.

"You want me to find the body?" Ken clarified. The line was silent, and the only answer he received was the silent ping from a message. Coordinates.