Ziva was bending over her desk to put down her morning coffee when she felt a sudden, sharp stinging sensation in a highly personal part of her anatomy. She whirled around, and saw Tony sauntering back to his desk with the air of one who had just performed a tedious but necessary duty.
Ziva was momentarily dumbstruck. She knew that her partner could be an idiot at times, but this beat everything. Did he want to die?
"Tony," she said slowly, "did you just pinch me on the behind?"
"Aye, sure and ye left me no choice," said Tony, sounding like the Lucky Charms Leprechaun on helium. "For shame, lassie, for shame! How can ye be forgettin' to clad yerself in the rebel colours, today of all days? What would Michael Collins be thinkin' of ye, eh?"
Ziva blinked. "Excuse me?"
"He means that it's St. Patrick's Day, and you're not wearing green," McGee translated.
At Ziva's blank look, he continued, "See, there's this old American custom that, if you don't wear green on March 17, anyone who is has the right to pinch you. It's one of those weird ethnic-heritage things."
"Weird, the lad says," said Tony, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Faith and begorrah, McOrangeman, have ye no respect? 'Twas the Irish who built this great country – the John Kennedys, the Barry Fitzgeralds, the..."
"The Tony O'Dinozzos?" inquired a sardonic voice.
Tony jumped, but recovered himself almost immediately. "Top of the morning to you, boss!" he said. "How's life in the boat-building world?"
"Right now, I'm more interested in death in the boat-building world," said Gibbs. "Murder, specifically. Naval shipyard. Grab your gear."
As the three agents did so, Gibbs headed for the elevator, and Ziva stared after him thoughtfully. "You know, Tony," she said, "Gibbs does not appear to be wearing green, either."
Tony raised his head, and looked at the typically earth-tone-clad team leader for a long moment. "Good point," he said. "I'll give Abby a heads-up on that."...