"Federal agents! Drop your weapon and freeze!" Gibbs yelled.

DiNozzo smirked. No one disobeyed Gibbs when he used that tone.

So imagine his surprise when the dirtbag drug-dealing petty officer—there couldn't really be that many law-flouting petty officers in the District, could there?—dropped the gun and promptly took off in the opposite direction.

Well, he obeyed half the order, DiNozzo thought, already three steps behind this particular law-flouting dirtbag. Unfortunately, today's special Dirtbag was quick as a bunny—a hopped-up-on-Abby-will-find-out-what, scared-shitless, knife-toting dirtbag bunny.

He suspected the exact breed was some sort of hybrid. And Ducky could talk Darwin blue concerning the origin of its species.

Then he wondered if the combo of drugs speeding through speedy Dirtbag Bunny's veins would make Abby's beloved Major Mass Spec implode. In the case of that unfortunate event, he wondered who would be called to clean up the mess when Abby herself exploded in a gory, globby, gross gushfest of grieving Goth. Janitorial, perhaps? Nah, that's what unions are for. In any case, he decided he would set up an office pool to see who could guess the number of tiny appliqué skulls pulled from the wreckage.

It was funny the things he thought about while chasing dirtbags through the streets of the District. Street? he thought suddenly, his brain catching up with his daylong legs just in time to hop nimbly over the hood of a car. Where the hell did the sidewalk end? He actually smiled at the face of the stunned driver—a bag herself, albeit a clean one, with her hundred-year-old mouth open in an imperfect, soggy O of surprise—as he bounced off the car that cost exponentially more than he made in a year.

He heard Gibbs huff to a stop behind Miss Daisy's car, which was roadblocking his grounded path. "Stay on him, DiNozzo!"

Nah, I thought I'd stop and grab you a coffee first, Boss, he thought. You've had a bad case of crabby all morning that can be cured only by an extremely extra grande cup of the vilest horror ever committed against unsuspecting coffee beans. No, I take that back. With your reputation, I'm sure there are acres' worth of the poor, innocent little beans quivering in dread of the day they are destined to meet your snarling lips.

At least they won't have to deal with that silvery doormat of doom you called a moustache.

Dirtbag turned down an alley, and DiNozzo grinned wider than when he'd gotten his first glimpse of Sally Monahan's bare butt while skinny dipping at the lake that one summer. Or was that last summer?

Either way, the grin dimmed several thousand watts—which meant it could still blind your average toaster—when he saw the alley was open-ended on the other side. Crap. He wondered if the Energizer Dirtbag's legs were burning as badly as his were. He also wondered if he could tackle the guy without impaling himself on the knife.

Only one way to find out, he thought as he burst forward with a speed that would have made his college coach's jaw drop—and maybe make Kate eat her tofu-lettuce-and-other-assorted-inedible-greenery-wrapped comments on his dietary choices. Wheaties be damned. Enough bran in that to float a boat… or flood a butt. Either way, give me a Milky Way and a sugar-choked mochachino over that any day.

Turned out Dirtbag the Bunny wasn't so cuddly-soft when DiNozzo landed on him—and he'd never heard a bunny, dirtbag variety or otherwise, make the wheezy-oomphy-groany noise that came from the suspect suddenly underneath him. But at least he had managed not to skewer himself on Dirtbag's knife. Good both for one Anthony DiNozzo's internal organs and fine cuisine everywhere.

Who ever heard of Italian kebabs? Any idiot—even a law-flouting petty officer—knows you can't put red wine on a stick.

DiNozzo and his new friend ended up like a pair of drunken dance partners who had just badly butchered their inebriated little ballet. They'd gone from fouetté to faceplant in five seconds flat. Limbs were tangled with limbs, which were embedded with tiny, adventurous pebbles that had decided to come along for the elegantly tumbling ride. DiNozzo's palms caught most of the tiny travelers, but the rest of him was spared since he'd landed on Dirtbag's ample back. His nose, though, was a little sore where he'd smacked it on the back of DB's head, but he focused on the task at hand. Focusing, he saw the task at hand was actually a leg in his hand.

Wait, back that up. A leg? In his hand?

"Bloody hell!" he shrieked, though when later telling the story, he simply yelled it—in a very, very manly kind of way. And not manly like David Hasselhoff crying into his cheeseburger manly. Like Chuck Norris manly, because, hey, Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.

But McGee would remind him that his "Bloody hell!" was, in reality, a shriek worthy of an arachnophobic swarmed by a herd of 8-legged harbingers of slow, painful death.

I've been hanging around Ducky too much lately, he thought immediately following the shriek/yell/decidedly-British epithet. He reached up and felt to make sure his ears had not, in fact, been talked off by the amiable, lethal old doc.

The movement, however, reminded him of the leg in his hand. Was Dirtbag a contortionist? He was awfully big to be able to bend like Gumby, but who knew? DiNozzo gave a little gasp when he gave a little tug on the leg and it disconnected. But then, it was never really connected anyway, in more ways than one.

So is the proper term 'dislocated', then?

Ugh.

DiNozzo rolled off Hoppy—well, at least he'd gotten the bunny part right—and looked around at the stunned faces of his out-of-breath team. He offered the prosthetic leg to McGee.

"Should we bag it?" he asked.

Gibbs grunted. "Not unless you want the ACLU on your ass."

"I think you mean PETA," DiNozzo said seriously, thinking of the inherent hoppiness of one-legged bunnies.

Gibbs nodded at McGee, who helped Dirtbag to his feet—er, foot. Gibbs heard the ratcheting of the cuffs and realized DiNozzo was still sitting on the ground. There was blood dripping from the senior agent's nose.

"DiNozzo? Did he hurt you?"

Tony swiped at the gore-'stache decorating his face and popped up to his feet—both of them. "How could he? He's just a bunny. A quick, furry, decidedly uncute, LEGLESS bunny. I think the leglessness contributes greatly to the uncuteness, but hey, whatever floods your bu… never mind."

"I think you're concussed, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, taking his elbow and steering him toward the truck. "Again."

"Nah," Tony said, wondering why Gibbs was holding his arm so firmly. It wasn't like he was going to float away like a big shiny-bright bunny balloon. "I was thinking about bunnies before I smacked my head."

Gibbs cast a puzzled sidelong glance at his still-bleeding agent. "Really? You think about bunnies while chasing suspects?"

"Not usually," DiNozzo answered, as if that explained it all. When Gibbs' hand tightened on his arm hard enough to make him fear for his limb, he continued, "Only when they're fast as hell. When they're quick like..."

"Bunnies," Gibbs said, nodding as if he weren't having the strangest conversation since Bell decided to have phone sex with Watson. Gives that first sentence transmitted—"Watson, come here; I want you"—a whole new meaning.

"Bunnies," DiNozzo agreed, nodding. "You know, this reminds me of a movie."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and pushed his agent into a sitting position on the back of the truck. He pulled the first aid kit and waited for DiNozzo to protest. He found him staring up at the sky instead.

"A movie about bunnies or blue skies?" Gibbs asked. At least the sky-watching allowed him to more easily check the damage to his senior agent's face. The brain damage would, thankfully, have to be left to professionals. Really, really patient professionals.

"Both, really," DiNozzo answered, sounding somewhat stuffy from the cotton suddenly in his nose. He stifled a giggle at the image of the tail-less bunnies who had provided the cottontaily puffs for his healing pleasure.

He shivered as he wondered if they were also legless.

"Movie was 'Donnie Darko,' " DiNozzo continued. "Made me walk around for a week looking up, waiting for that plane engine to fall on my head. Then one day, I just stopped looking for it."

Gibbs finished his ministrations, tilting Tony's head back farther and making him pinch the bridge of his nose. Gibbs stood up straight, looking down slightly into DiNozzo's eyes. "You realized it was either going to happen or it wasn't. No point looking for it."

DiNozzo was silent for a second, and Gibbs wondered if DiNozzos did in fact pass out, if they could do so with their eyes open.

"Tony?"

"Nah, all that looking up was just making my neck hurt."

A/N: No bunnies, ballerinas or petty officers were harmed in the writing of this fic. Chuck Norris and I made sure of it.