The Idiom: Knock Your Socks Off—NCIS-Ziva-Abby

Mossad Officer Ziva David had a glum look on her face as she stepped off the elevator and entered the bullpen on the rainy Monday morning. This rare glumness did not escape very unoccupied and thus very bored Agent DiNozzo's notice, and he zoned in on her immediately.

McGee was out sick, they had no case, Abby was busy, and Gibbs—well, he wouldn't dare talk to Gibbs—so Tony DiNozzo had nothing to do.

Until Ziva appeared at work!

"Morning, Zee-vah!" he greeted jovially, chucking a paper airplane at her. "Did you get lots of snores over the weekend after our difficult case?" he laughed at his own joke.

Ziva scowled at him and he frowned, jumping up nosily.

"What has the little ninja's hair in knots, I wonder?" he asked, creeping up to her desk. Then, out of the blue, he seemed to remember what her plans for the weekend had been.

"Ah!" he cried, settling himself on the edge of her desk. "How did your date with," he lowered his voice considerably and puffed out his chest, "the construction man," he reverted to his usual talking voice, "go?"

Ziva gave him a glum look.

"Not well," she said shortly.

"Oh?" Tony asked, cocking his head, curiosity piqued.

Ziva shrugged.

He sighed impatiently and squirmed.

"Aww, Ziva, please. I'm bored. Please. Details," he begged.

"He turned out not to be my type," Ziva offered with another, smaller shrug.

She glanced past him to Gibbs, who was studiously ignoring them both, staring at a case file, with his glasses perched on his nose.

"Did he make you pay for dinner?" Tony asked sympathetically.

Ziva shook her head.

"I would not mind paying for dinner," she added, as if it were nothing.

Tony perked up.

"Really? Ziva, want to go to dinner with me?" he asked with a smirk.

She glared.

"Be gone," she ordered, waving her hand.

"No! I'm sorry, I apologize. Finish the story."

"There is not a story."

"Come on, there's gotta be some reason he wasn't your type! Bad hair, bad teeth? He didn't eat kosher? He had an Adolf Hitler mustache?"

Ziva glared evilly at Tony.

"Umm, okay, sorry I mentioned Hitler," Tony muttered.

"I do not wish to tell you about my private life," Ziva said primly, turning to her computer.

She could tell, after he remained stalwartly at her desk for about five silent minutes, he was not going anywhere until he got some details.

"Tell me one bad thing," he whined.

"Fine," Ziva agreed shortly, "He drove too slowly."

Tony stared at her, and rolled his eyes.

"That's not a deal breaker, Misssssss David," he drawled, shaking his head, "What else?"

She did not reply.

"So, he just all around didn't do it for ya?" Tony prodded relentlessly. "He just didn't knock your socks off?"

Ziva looked up at him and scoffed.

"Please. He did not even get his hand up my thigh."

Tony's eyes bugged out of her head and he burst into a cackle of laughter as he realized she'd misinterpreted his words.

"Too much information, David," Gibbs growled, without even looking up, as his senior agent attempted to explain the colloquialism between peals of laughter.

Speaking of socks getting knocked off: Gibbs has that effect on people.