"This is killing me. I feel like I know him."

Ziva stares at the plasma screen with a tilted head and squinted eyes where a picture of Lieutenant Roy Sanders, our latest case, is displayed.

"Mossad?"

"Maybe."

"A one-night stand you can't get out of your head?"

She snaps around, lifting up a bent paper clip.

"I can kill you eighteen different ways with this paper clip." The liaising agent threatens.

Unaffected, I roll my eyes. "You can, but you won't."

"And why is that?" She cocks a brow.

"I'm the only one who keeps you sane in this office building." I file the edges of my nails. "With the constant masculine bickering going on, you'd be locked up in an asylum before you can say insane."

The paper clip drops from between her fingertips, landing on her desk. With an aggravated sigh, she sits down in her chair.

"Ducky find out what's wrong with Lieutenant Sanders, boss?" Tony calls out to him.

"No, he's still examining him." He settles down at his desk. "Thinks it could be radiation poisoning."

"Do we know how he was exposed?"

"No, but he's got a high-risk job as an inspector of the I.A.E.A.."

"International Atomic Energy Agency."

Ziva props her chin on her hand. "I wonder if he's been to Israel." When she turns around, she's met by Gibbs' curious stare. "I feel like I know him from somewhere."

"Is this guy. . .you know, contagious?" Tony's hand touches the back of his head, checking for any clumps of missing hair.

"McGee better hope not." Gibbs shrugs.

"He's rather attractive, don't you think?"

"Sanders?"

"No, McGee — yes, Sanders."

After returning from Autopsy, Gibbs assigns me and Ziva to follow the lieutenant to his reserved room in Bethesda.

So the fun begins.

After situating Sanders in the patient intensive care room, the doctor arrives to give the lieutenant some medication to start off treatment.

"The pigment, Prussian blue, has been applied by artists since the 1700s. It was used by Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso."

The lieutenant stares down at the plastic cup, examining the two massive pills. "And me."

"How long until it takes effect?"

"About 24 hours." The doctor estimates. "Prussian blue works best when it's used or taken as a preventative measure before exposure or right after."

"Well, that's not exactly the case." I clear my throat.

"Exactly. So in the meantime, let's see if you can replace the fluids you lost without an I.V.. We prefer oral feeding to maintain the integrity of your gut."

"My gut has integrity."

"So does my spleen."

Dr. Hass interrupts the two. "Now, you can eat anything you want just so long as it's low microbial. But no drinking and no smoking."

"Is that all?"

"One more thing." He lifts a single finger. "We need to keep his stress levels down."

"Yeah, that's not going to be easy at all."

Both Ziva and the lieutenant mention at the same time.

"We're in the middle of an investigation."

And they stare at each other for precisely three second before Ziva runs out of the room to discuss with Gibbs, who happens to be waiting just outside the door.

Through the following morning, Ziva notes down every little part of Lieutenant Sanders routine from the previous day. Only, the discussion leads to her recognizing him from running the same path in opposite directions.

"See, this would never happen to me." I prop my legs up on the other end of the couch. "Mostly because I don't run."

"You should join me. It's a beautiful trail." Ziva offers.

I nod in the lieutenant's direction. "Well, if it means I find myself a good looking guy. . .not to be overstepping my bounds."

"Not at all." Sanders smiles lightly. "It's a nice compliment."

"Anyone up for some hospital food?" My palms rub together. "Or I could get us some real food from the Italian restaurant two blocks away." I lift my brows.

"Eva, I don't think we should be worrying about what to eat." Ziva shoots me a stern look, to which I raise my hands. "Especially when we're in the middle of an attempted murder case."

"Food is fuel, Z. Fuel is important to an investigation." I reply in mild argument.

"You know, I am getting pretty hungry." Sanders sits up in his hospital bed. "Getting some lunch wouldn't be bad."

"Why, thank you, Lieutenant Sanders."

"Kiss-up."

"Oh, I won't be the one kissing —"

"Eva!"

Soon after filling our stomachs with pasta dish after pasta dish, Ziva and I meet with the lieutenant outside in the hospital garden. Later into the evening, Dr. Hass informs us the Prussian blue wasn't effective for Sanders, and his radiation level only seems to be increasing.

After another sleepless night, I grab my third cup of instant coffee from the vending machine and try to relax in the waiting area.

"Want the rest of mine?" I shake the now half-empty cup.

"You look like you need it more than I do." She sits down next to me after refilling her coffee cup.

"Ziva, I'm going to ask you a question." I look over at her. "And you cannot — under any circumstances — get mad at me."

"Alright."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

A sigh slips from my lips. "Are you falling in love with Lieutenant Sanders? Are you falling in love with a dying man?"

"Of course not." She scoffs. "Why would you ever think that?"

"The way you look at him. . .and the way he looks back at you. It looked all too familiar to me." My head tilts back.

"Eva, there's still a chance for you and —"

"I don't think there is. Not anymore."

Gibbs, McGee, and Tony arrive to learn of Lieutenant Sanders' current health status and everything the doctor has been telling us. Ziva leaves to help administer his will, and I'm left alone with the three men.

"How did he ingest the thallium?" Gibbs passes me a Starbucks cup with fresh caffeine.

"They ate lunch at the shooting range, and Abby's combing through the physical evidence." Tony approaches the table. "But we still haven't found the smoking gun."

McGee continues. "We swept the dumpster at the shooting range, but the levels were low. Same with the kitchen."

"There were two food preparers, two servers. They all scanned clean. So did Dee Dee — the rather eccentric woman who runs the place." His brows scrunch in the middle.

"Contamination must have occurred during consumption." I comb a hand through my tousled hair.

"Well, do you think someone spiked his hamburger or his coffee?" The junior agent suggests.

Gibbs stays silent for a few moments, sipping his coffee. "Who got near his food?"

"I watched the security footage, and Mark Sadowski was with him the whole time. But you can't see the table or the food because the cameras are trained on the shooting stalls." He mentions.

"Oh, believe me." Tony shakes his head slowly. "You don't want to know why."

"Someone could have come from the back and not been seen."

"Sadowski was at the range and here, our two contamination sites."

"Bring him in."

"On it, boss."

The interrogation of Sadowski ends abruptly when Ducky and Abby deduce the radioactive cause to come from cigar smoke inhalation, leading him to fall sick like Sanders.

"I feel like I'm running a marathon." The lieutenant breathes deeply through the oxygen mask.

Ziva promptly sits at the end of his bed. "You are."

"I called my parents. They're on their way here." He lets the mask hang under his chin. "My mom's taking it bad. The good news is my dad's going to fix it. He's going to turn it all around."

"Call in some favors."

"Ask the right questions."

"Because every problem has a solution."

"Exactly!"

I notice Tony standing by the door, debating whether he should enter or not. Silently, I excuse myself and walk out.

"How is he?"

"He's fighting for his life."

"And. . ."

"She's trying not to fall in love with him." My arms cross over my chest. "But I think it's too late."

His gaze shifts from the patient to me. "Did he mention anything about going to Uzbekistan next week? Any details?"

"It's classified." I feel the lack of sleep taking a toll on my body. "Only Sadowski and Russio knew. No one else."

Not wanting to disturb Ziva with Lieutenant Sanders, Tony and I sit in the waiting area right by the coffee and vending machines.

"Here." I shove a dollar bill into his hand. "I know you don't like carrying small bills."

"Thanks." He takes it reluctantly before buying himself an unhealthy snack.

I rub my exhausted eyes awake. "Tony, I'm. . .I'm tired of this." Before he can open his mouth, I continue. "I don't like that we can't sit in a room without this. . .this awkward tension looming over our heads all the time."

"Glad to know you feel the same way."

"So, can we go back to being friends?"

"I think we can."