Chapter 4 - A new beginning

McGee shifted the blender in his arms, struggling to insert the key in his lock. His jaw still throbbed, but now his hands also ached from Abby's impromptu sign lesson. It had been a frustrating time for both of them as he attempted to imitate her lightning fast actions. Apparently Abby spoke at the same speed regardless of language.

He had been relying on over-the-counter medication all day to dull the pain because prescribed painkillers had a tendency to knock him out, but now that he was home, he was keen to take a dose, or two, of the real thing to get him through the night. The hunger pangs had returned, rumbling like thunder through his stomach, but he was far too tired, sore and miserable to even contemplate cooking, so his body would just have to put up with a protein shake for dinner.

As the door swung open, the smell of cooking food froze him in his tracks. His brain tried to get around the incongruous picture of a short red haired female intruder in a vaguely Scottish outfit cooking dinner in his modest kitchen. She turned and her face set off a spark of recognition closely followed by surging waves of anger. Fear lapped as his feet. Once the initial onslaught of emotions receded, he tried to reconcile the newly revealed picture: a Mossad assassin with crazy ninja skills cooking dinner for him like a dutiful wife as he returned from a hard day's work.

"You shouldn't be here," he mumbled sullenly, closing the door firmly behind him.

"I had nowhere else to go," she explained, turning her attention to a pot whose contents were threatening to boil over. "Tony's house is under surveillance by my people, who think we are having an affair, and every terrorist in the known world seems to have Gibbs' home address and phone number."

"What about Abby?"

She turned to face him again and he could see the moisture in her eyes. "I wanted to see how you were," she said quietly. Suddenly she looked delicate and frail; no longer a trained killer, but a young woman, scared and alone. McGee felt an almost overwhelming urge to protect her, laughable considering her training and his current physical condition.

"I could use a gun," he suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

"Oh, sorry," she sniffed a little. "I have it with me. It's in the handbag." She paused, acutely aware of the irony. "Don't," she warned good naturedly as the shadow of a smile passed over his face, "I'm incontinent."

"Incognito?"

"That, too."

McGee placed the blender gently on the counter and began searching Ziva's enormous bag for his gun. Digging through women's handbags was not something he did habitually and after encountering the terrifying assortment of malicious objects in Ziva's, he was unlikely to ever do so again.

"I hoped you would like some of my famous casserole."

Tucking his gun back into its holster, McGee tapped the blender lightly.

"Ahh, so I will process yours, yes?"

He waited expectantly, his expression suggesting she should try again.

"Right. Processed casserole for two."

He nodded curtly and took a seat.

"McGee," Ziva started uncertainly as she washed up the two cups and two straws that constituted the dinner crockery, "you have no couch and no spare bed."

"I know," he muttered through strained lips.

"I was sort of hoping I could stay here tonight."

"You have three choices," he mumbled pragmatically, "leave, sleep in the bed or sleep on the floor. There is no way I am sleeping on that floor with this jaw."

Ziva hesitated, weighing up her options. "And you would be a gentleman?"

McGee was incredulous. Although she might leave some forensic evidence, Ziva could kill him in a heartbeat, possibly even in her sleep. He held up his hands in surrender.

Ziva smiled. "It will drive Tony crazy!"

Ziva lay in bed, tense and wide awake, but it was not McGee, lying almost comatose next to her, having finally taken his prescribed painkillers, who occupied her thoughts. She was impatient for news from the front; news that would probably only come tomorrow, maybe later.

McGee grunted in his sleep and rolled laboriously towards her, throwing a warm arm across her stomach. His head nestled comfortably against her pillow and he seemed to smile about something in his dreams. She sighed contently as he settled back into the rhythm of sleep. For the first time in days, she did not feel completely isolated. Granted, if someone did break in at that instant, the role of knight in shining armour would be hers, but she found his presence comforting. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep - time would move faster if she got some sleep. Lulled by McGee's sloppy snoring, she drifted off.

Ziva snorted awake. It was early morning but not too early. If everything had worked as planned, then maybe, just maybe, she would be free. She stared at the screen hanging on the wall in McGee's bedroom, debating whether she really wanted to know right now. If she waited, she could pretend that it had all worked, regardless of reality.

She heaved a single resolute sigh. Leaning carefully over McGee's slumbering form, she plucked the remote from the bedside table and flicked on the TV. Riotous images sprawled across the screen - soldiers yelling, guns firing, tanks lumbering across the lawn that had once been her childhood playground. She smiled grimly.

The by-line scrolling across the bottom of the screen told her all she wanted to know. "This is getting to be a habit," she muttered to herself. An image of her father flashed across the screen, and then an image of his successor. "Shalom, father."

Now there was a new regime, a new family in charge and, more importantly, new vendettas to occupy everyone's time. An unexpected sob escaped her and suddenly McGee was sitting up at her side.

"Ziva?"

Unable to speak, she covered her face.

McGee's eyes flitted between her and the television until he finally understood. Then he held her gently as she wept.