Chapter 1 : Some people are just not good in hospitals

Memories flashed by: a routine tip on a cold case, a familiar face in the crowd, a single shot, a searing pain in her shoulder. Then McGee's answering shots, his concerned face filling her vision, his American drawl. "You okay, Ziva?" No, she wasn't. Panic was surging through her - they had been set up. No - she had been set up. McGee may have scared him off, but the man with the dark brooding eyes and the heavy beard was not finished with her. Not by a long shot.

Slowly, Ziva became aware of a familiar smell - hospital. There was a tightness in her shoulder where pain had previously resided. She reasoned the single drip line to her arm probably supplied only fluids, or maybe painkillers. An internal inventory revealed no major injuries apart from the shoulder, just a few bumps and bruises. Her body was mended; all it needed now was time to heal. It could heal on its own time. Right now, she had places to be.

Someone was moving around her almost silently. Through feathered eyelashes she found her - the nurse. She was petite for one in her occupation - shorter than Ziva, slightly built and sporting short dark hair. Ziva watched as the she slipped out the door, closing it soundlessly behind her.

There was another sound near her - deep breathing. She turned her head slowly, peering carefully through her lashes again. Her eyes came to rest on one special agent Timothy McGee sound asleep in the chair next to the bed. She frowned; this was a complication she did not need.

Opening her eyes fully, she assessed the situation. McGee was clearly fast asleep, his head slumped forward, hands resting limply on the open book in his lap in their natural cupped position, his fingers twitching restlessly. He rocked gently on each breath. Unfortunately, he was tilting forward so far that he was in danger of falling out of the chair. It would be better for both of them if he stayed asleep.

She removed the drip from her arm and stemmed the flow for a moment. Then silently, she slithered off the bed to crouch at his side. Placing one arm upon his warm, sleep sodden body and the other behind his slightly damp head, she fought to overcome the inertia of his mass. Once she built up momentum, she was able to swing him from a forward slump to a more secure position leaning back against the wall. His lower jaw sagged and the ergonomics of the new position introduced a low rumbling snore. She released her grip and evaluated her chances. He must be exhausted. Good - the less he knew, the better. The snore was helpful too - she could monitor him even when he was out of eyesight.

A small smile played over her lips. NCIS' poor record for guarding people would not be challenged today.

She padded around the room to a small cupboard where she found her cargo pants. Gently resting the door closed, she flicked on the light and held up the pants. It had been a long time since she had needed to use these pockets. With a sigh, she started digging out her equipment, keenly aware of McGee's every sound in the other room.

Ten minutes later, she was staring at a new woman in the mirror. Her long hair was cropped above the shoulders, accentuating her natural curl. The resulting halo was dyed a burgundy red colour. Experience had taught her she could imitate a vaguely dark Scot look, so long as she kept her mouth shut. She collected the excess hair in one plastic bag, threw some money and her survival kit in another and flicked off the bathroom light.

McGee was still snoring obliviously when she re-entered the room, though his head had lolled to one side. She gave him a resigned, tight-lipped smile and carefully slid his gun from its holster. Feeling its comforting weight in her hands, she hit the button for the nurse and staked out the door.

The nurse went down without uttering a sound and in the excitement of the moment, Ziva nearly snapped her neck. Some habits were hard to break. Instead, she lowered the smaller woman to the ground, stripped off her white clothing and transformed into the nurse of Tony's dreams: The shoes were a bit tight, the dress was way too short, but it would do for now.

"Phew." She let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Suddenly, the room went silent. Her head spun round to see McGee blearily trying to get her into focus.

"Ziva," he slurred groggily.

She approached him quickly, tugging at the hemline of the dress. "I am truly sorry you had to see me like this." And she struck out at his jaw sending him sprawling unconscious on the floor.

Quickly, she grabbed the plastic bags, dumped the gun in one and ran for the door just as the guard she knew would be stationed outside was coming in to check on the noise.

"Not pretty," she mumbled to him, avoiding eye contact and holding up the two plastic bags.

He winced and withdrew, letting her pass, averting his eyes from her and her upheld packages.

Ziva smiled - no one ever checks the nurse.

Ziva strode purposely through the late afternoon streets, hiking a good few miles before she settled on a trash can to dump her residual hair. A few more blocks and she found what she had been seeking - a charity clothing store. She scanned the racks and picked out a vaguely Scottish patterned skirt, white long sleeved top, red cardigan and some flat shoes. As she approached the counter she saw the piece de resistance: a large handbag in which to stash her essentials. McGee would have been pleased. Once he forgave her for dislocating his jaw.

She deposited the nurse's outfit in the next trash bin on her route. Night was falling fast; it was time she headed for the one place someone could tell her what was going on.