AN: This is an ambitious attempt on my behalf to write both my first Multi-Chapter story, and my first slash. It might take quite a while, so please be patient. And don't expect regular updates.

All characters and the show NCIS are not mine, and will never be mine. Unless really freaky things happen with the universe.

I do not have a beta reader, so any and all mistakes are my own fault, and I apologise. Despite Rule 6. Spelling and Grammar mistakes deserve apologies.

Abby had warned him just this morning that his attitude of late was going to piss off the Gods of Karma, or something like that. He really, sincerely, wished that he had listened to her and had made time today to help an old lady cross the street. Or something. Because seriously, what the fuck was up with his luck?

Coffee spilled down his tie (his beautiful new Zegna tie). Flat on the 'Stang. Tim – Tim! – getting tossed the keys when they were sent out to question a witness. Holy slow driver Batman, could McCautious be any more annoying behind the wheel? And the witness. The owner of a shipping company contracted by the Navy to freight office supplies to the Middle East. Some shipments had a lot more in the crates than was indicated on the manifests, and one such crate of drugs got into suspicious hands. So there they were, interviewing the owner of the company, fishing in the dark trying to come up with any possible leads to tell them who in the company was the dirty bastard. And the owner, who they had NO IDEA was the dirty bastard, somehow deduced from their questions (erroneously) that they had him figured out, and decided to run. Why do the perps always run? If Dirty Bastard had held on to his cool for 5 more minutes, he and Tim would have moseyed on out of there none the wiser and Dirty Bastard could have devised some plan to sail into the sunset or hop a plane to China, or more realistically, hang around D.C. and get caught in a couple of days after their crack investigative skills had pieced the clues together. But no.

Dirty Bastard took off running through the warehouse, and despite Tony's manly bellows of "Stop, Federal Agents!" he did not stop. His bewildered and befuddled employees stood by as the three men raced past and out the doors to the loading dock, which was icy. Icy, slippery loading docks are not easy to run on in Gucci loafers. Which is how he ended up bounce, bounce, bouncing on his ass down the loading dock steps, Dirty Bastard getting cocky and turning to laugh, and McGee sailing over Tony in a pretty impressive display of the usefulness and practicality of ugly rubber-soled shoes. Tony really did have to give Probie props – the flying tackle was awesome, as viewed from his slightly upside down, spread-eagle sprawled-down-a-flight-of-stairs, vantage point.

So they (Tim) got the Dirty Bastard cuffed and in the car and they then headed back to the Navy Yard to turn said bastard over to Gibbs. Tony, his suit slightly rumpled but fixable, paid a reluctant visit to Ducky who determined his bumps and bruises were superficial, gave him an icepack just in case, and sent him to Abby for hugs and kisses.

Now here he was, seven hours later, stuck in an absolutely ridiculous predicament. His ass had started to protest its treatment on the stairs, and there was a general tightening of all muscle groups. So like any former varsity athlete-manly federal agent was wont to do, he had run himself a bath, liberally sprinkling in the Epsom salts and foam bath (lavender and sage, guaranteed to soothe both the soul and aching muscles according to the label). It smelled good and the bubbles were a bonus. Trying not to feel too girly, he poured himself a glass of wine (only because he had run out of beer), blew up his bath pillow and affixed it to the tub with the suction cup thingys, and gingerly stepped over the lip of the tub, promptly skidding on the slippery skin the Epson salts had coated the porcelain with.

For the second time that day, he flailed and twisted and landed on his ass. Unfortunately, this time his back gave a holy hell freaking fuck of a spasm, rendering him immobile in 8 inches of pleasantly scented water. As he lay there cursing Abby for her bad luck premonition, he considered his (very limited) options. One, he miraculously recovered and was able to stand up and go to bed and end this freak of a day. Not likely. Two, he recovered a teeny tiny bit, just enough to flip himself over the edge of the tub and crawl to bed. A few tentative movements of his arms and legs and back quickly cast this scenario into the Not Likely category as well. So with a roll of his eyes and a curse to the gods, he accepted the inevitability of Option Three and reached over the edge of the tub, blindly groping with his hand for the cell phone he had placed on the closed toilet seat while preparing the bath. Rule #3, never be unreachable, you know. Even in the bathtub.

For many reasons, he really, really, didn't want to make this call.

"Gibbs."

"Um, hey Boss. How's it going? What's up?"

"What's wrong DiNozzo?"

Tony could hear the resigned sigh over the phone. It was pretty scary sometimes, how Gibbs could read his voice so easily.

"Well, ya see Gibbs. You were a Marine, right?"

"You called to tell me I was a Marine?"

"No, not that. It's just that McGee was a Webelos. And even though he's been doing real good at the working out and the training and all, and that was a pretty cool tackle he made this morning, I don't think he's strong enough for this, and I don't think McPrude took a lot of community showers in the Scouts."

"DiNozzo? Did Ducky give you painkillers?"

"No Boss. See, the thing is, you're a Marine and I was a varsity athlete. So you're strong and used to naked guys in a locker room and I need your help Boss."

"What the hell Tony?"

"I sort of slipped and fell in the bathtub, and now my back has totally spasmed on me and I can't get out. I'm stuck. And the water's getting cold. I was going to call McGee to help me, but as I said, the whole me being naked thing will probably scar the Probie for life. Plus, I'm like 6'1" of solid muscle boss. I don't know that he could lift me."

Tony finished spewing his babble, and calmly waited for any sort of a reply.

"I'll be right there Tony. Hang tight."

"Um, Boss? Might wanna make sure you've got both your lock picks and some bolt cutters. Pretty sure I put the chain on."

As usual, there was no goodbye from Gibbs, just the click and dead air as he hung up the phone. Tony snapped his shut too, and tossed it back over the lip of the tub, belatedly thinking, Oh yeah, can't move. Maybe should have kept that in reach.

He squirmed a little, trying to ease the ache in his back a little from the weird shape he was crumpled in, and tried not to think too much about the fact that he was splayed naked in a tub, looking just about as vulnerable as it was possible to be. And that Gibbs, Mr. Tough Marine, was coming to rescue him from this totally ridiculous situation.