The next thing he hears is laughter. Distinct laughter. He knew that laugh. Anywhere in the world, he would know that laugh. He would know her smell, her laugh, her hands anywhere.
"Can you take his off my head now?"
She leans forward. Through the covering on his head he can feel her warm breath, against his ear. She whispers seductively, "No."
"I'm dying here."
"You aren't dying."
"Please. Are you done torturing me yet?"
"No."
"What did I do to make you so vengeful?"
"Do you remember what happened last night?"
He makes the sudden realization that he is in her bed, in boxer shorts. She is wearing a piece of lingerie. Had they had sex? Had he met her at the bar? The thoughts race through his head. Finally he answers her.
"No."
"We went for drinks after work."
"Did we?"
"No. Nothing happened."
"So why am I handcuffed to your bed?"
"That is a great question."
"And the answer?"
"You had a lot to drink."
"I got that much."
"I took your keys."
"How did I end up here?"
"Neither of us were in a condition to drive last night. My apartment was just considerably closer to the bar."
"Oh."
"You passed out on my couch, after vomiting into my palm tree."
"Is that some sort of euphemism?"
"No. I have a potted palm tree, in the living room. You threw up in it."
"You're angry at me because I threw up on your tree?"
"No."
"What did I do?"
"You wandered into my room in the middle of the night, and crawled in bed with me."
"Oh."
"First you wanted to snuggle, but when I kicked you, it seemed to wake you up."
"I tried..."
"You didn't try anything."
The night before:
"Ziva, why are you being so mean?"
"You are hot. Stay over there. I don't want to melt, and I definitely do not want to snuggle with you."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Can I stop you?"
"I'm sure you could."
"What, Tony?"
"Why haven't we ever..." he trails off.
"Ever what?" she questions in exasperation.
"You know."
"Why haven't we ever what?"
"Had sex?"
"We're partners."
"You've slept with people that you worked with before."
"That is true, but I have never really had a partner before."
"You don't want it to complicate things?"
"I..."
"Cause I would be ok, if you just wanted to have sex."
"What makes you think I want to have sex with you?"
"Because you know that it would be mind blowing."
"You certainly are sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"It's more about us, than me. I mean we know each other so well, that it would have to be good."
"I see."
"So what do you say?"
"Go to sleep."
"But..."
"We can discuss it when we're sober."
"Please."
"I am not going to have sloppy, disappointing, drunk sex with you."
"Are you always such a mean drunk?"
"Go to sleep!"
He listens to her tell the story, knowing that she had remembered every detail correctly, even if he couldn't remember. Even if she was drunk. He takes a moment to process.
"I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?"
"What time is it?"
"Eight fifteen, why?"
"We're supposed to be at work."
"We called in sick."
"Sick? With what? Did you call Gibbs and tell him that we have hangovers?"
"The flu."
"So are you hungover?"
"Not anymore," she admits.
"You've been awake for a while?"
"Hours."
"Plotting your revenge? What time did you get up?"
"O530."
"What time did we get in last night? We didn't even leave work until almost eleven."
"A quarter til three."
"So you're vengeful, annoyed, and sleep-deprived today? Is that why I am hand cuffed to your bed?"
"That is part of the reason."
"Can you take this off my head, now?"
She concedes. She takes the covering off of his head. His eyes take a few minutes to adjust to the light. When things come into focus, he is unable to takes his eyes off her. She is still straddling him. He touches the small of her back.
"You need to get off me."
"Why?"
"Ziva, please," he begs.