Disclaimer: I only own the original characters, the rest belong to someone else.

A/N: Huge thanks to Rinne and Kate98 for the fast betas. I added stuff after they went through the story, so if there are any punctuation errors, they're mine and mine alone.

NotARedhead and I were talking about the large amount of Tony angst that's been showing up on the fiction sites recently. Even I was starting to feel sorry for the man, so I decided to write something nice, for a change. With that, I give you…

Tony and the Wonderful, Terrific, Excellent, Very Good Day

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was having a very good day. No, make that an excellent day, possibly the best day in his entire life. It all started during his morning run. He was in the zone, running behind a beautiful woman, watching the play of her muscles as she moved gracefully. After taking the time to admire the glory of her firm butt and muscular, yet shapely legs, he made his move and increased his speed, easily catching up to the young woman.

Sydney Stimson was also deep in the zone, the music from her iPod drowning out the world, when she saw something come up in her peripheral vision. Never breaking stride, she turned her head slightly to see a tall, handsome man keeping pace with her. The man turned his head and smiled at her, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. Syd silently thanked her cat for delaying her run by placing a dead bird on her pillow as an offering that morning. Normally she would be finished with her daily run, never seeing the man who was making her heart beat a little faster.

Tony was pleased that the full view of the runner was just as good as the rear view. He flashed her his most beguiling smile causing her already flushed face to turn a shade redder.

"Hey," he said, not breathless at all, "I haven't seen you here before, are you new to this area?"

"I usually run an hour earlier," Syd replied, "but I got involved in something this morning."

"I hope it wasn't another man," Tony said, grinning playfully.

"No, it wasn't."

"That's good. My name's Tony," he said as the pair rounded a curve.

"I'm Sydney, Syd to my friends," she replied, smiling back.

"Pretty name," Tony replied, "mind if I call you Syd?"

"Not at all," Syd stumbled and started to pitch forward but was caught before she lost her balance.

"Careful there, Syd," he said, laughing. "Lucky I was hear to stop you from falling."

"It must be fate," she said, laughing along with him.

"Must be," agreed Tony. He cocked his head. "Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "It'll have to be fast, though, I have to get to work soon."

"Great." She caught her breath at the delighted grin he flashed at her. "I know a quiet little coffee shop a few blocks from here."

The two set off at a leisurely jog, instantly comfortable in each other's company.

Tony strolled into NCIS an hour later, having showered, changed and programmed Syd's number into his phone... not necessarily in that order.

"Good morning, Probie, Zeevah," he called out cheerfully.

"Somebody's in a good mood," observed Ziva. "Did you have a hot date last night?"

"Ziva David," Tony said reproachfully, "can't someone just be in a good mood?"

"I suppose," she said, "but your good moods seem to be based on what your latest conquest is."

"Not true, not true," Tony protested, "I'm always in a good mood."

"You know," McGee said, "you're right. You always seem to be joking or smiling about something. I never realized what a cheerful guy you can be."

"Thank you, McGee," Tony bowed slightly, "I'm glad someone's observational skills are improving."

Ziva stuck her tongue out at Tony, which he returned in kind.

"Oh good," Gibbs said, striding into the squad room, "kindergarten is open."

"'Morning, Boss," Tony said. "Any progress in the Whitman case?"

Gibbs stopped and glared at his senior field agent.

"Guess not," Tony said, sitting quickly.

"You three are expected at the shooting range," Gibbs said. "You need to go through your quarterly requalification tests."

"Piece o' cake," Tony said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. "Hey Ziva, are you up for a little friendly competition?"

"Oh please," scoffed Ziva, "do you really think you can outshoot me?"

"Why yes, Zeevah," Tony grinned at the Mossad agent, "I believe I can."

"You're on," she said, a predatory gleam in her eye.

"What about me?" McGee said, following the two onto the elevator. Tony and Ziva looked at him. "Never mind," he said, as the doors closed.

The shooting range was quiet, relatively speaking, as the three agents made their way to the shooting line. There were just two other people there, both engrossed in what they were doing.

"Okay," Tony said, "we each go three rounds. We'll go for head shots on the first round; body shots on the second, aiming for the heart; and then we'll do a freestyle for the third round."

"What do you mean, 'freestyle'?" McGee asked.

"Shoot at anything you want, Probie," replied Tony. "On the target, I mean. Be creative."

Ziva's brow furrowed. "Be creative?"

"Yeah," replied Tony, "be creative. We'll let McGee be the judge on the last round."

"Why, because you don't think I can compete with you two?" McGee asked, indignantly. Tony and Ziva looked at him pointedly. "Right," he said, clearing his throat and stepping back. "I'll be the judge."

Putting their protective headsets on, the three agents went to their stations and prepared for the first round. At the sound of the horn the three slammed the clips in, aimed and fired in rapid succession. At the all clear, they went to their targets. Tony and Ziva had all hit the head, neither one missed a shot. McGee hit the head seven out of nine times.

"You're getting better, McGee," Tony said, causing the younger agent to flush with pride. "Pretty soon you'll be able to play with the big boys and girls."

"Thanks, Tony," McGee said, grinning broadly.

"We're tied," Ziva observed, smiling at Tony.

"So far," he agreed, grinning back as they headed to their stations. They had the same result with the second round, each of them getting all nine rounds in the area of the heart. The third and final round was taken extremely seriously, with Tony and Ziva concentrating on their targets with equal intensity.

As the three walked toward the targets, McGee burst out laughing. "Tony definitely wins this one," he said between snorts.

"What? Impossible," Ziva argued. "I got five rounds in the head and four in the heart."

"Yeah, but Tony was very creative in hitting his target," replied McGee, pointing to the paper target. Ziva looked closely and started laughing. Tony had shot a fairly clean pattern in the shape of a heart on the torso of his target.

"I win," Tony said, grinning at the other two.

Ziva punched him on the arm. "You win this one, Tony," she said, laughing. "If nothing else, you get points for artistic merit, even if it is a little sloppy."

Later that morning

The squad room was quiet except for the sound of nimble fingers on keyboards, as well as the sound of hunting and pecking. Mumbling started coming from the vicinity of McGee's desk as the younger agent scowled at his monitor. He typed something quickly, then hit the enter key with more force than usual, muttering, "Come on, come on," under his breath.

Finally, Tony had had enough. "Probie!" he yelled. "What is going on over there?"

McGee shook his head. "I don't know," he said, "there's something wrong with this program. It keeps looping and crashing my computer. Noooo!" He pushed his chair back in frustration. "There it goes again."

Tony got up from his desk and walked over. "Let me see."

"Yeah, right, Tony," McGee replied sarcastically, "like you're going to figure out what's wrong with the program. You barely know how to program your DVD recorder."

"Hey," protested Tony, "I know how to program my DVR." He emphasized the acronym smugly. "Let me in there," he continued, kneeling in front of McGee's computer. McGee shot an exasperated look at Ziva, then threw up his hands and leaned back, allowing Tony to do whatever he was going to do.

"Let's see," Tony muttered to himself, punching a few keys.

"Tony, stop, you'll do more damage," McGee started to say, only to be shushed by the older agent.

"We'll click on this," Tony moved the mouse and clicked, "and then we'll…" He clicked on something else and a loud beep emanated from the speakers. Tony leaned back, his eyes wide in surprise as numbers and letters started scrolling on the screen.

"What did you do?" McGee cried in alarm, pushing Tony aside. "What did you… what the … it's compiling. The program's compiling." He turned to Tony in surprise. "What did you do?"

Tony stood up, grinning broadly. "I'd tell you, McGee," he said, "but then I'd have to kill you." He sauntered back to his desk and sat down, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

McGee looked at the program compiling, then looked at Tony's grinning face. "I don't believe it," he muttered to himself.

"Believe it, Probie," Tony said, laughing.

Later

Gibbs was sitting at his desk, frowning at the photos from the Whitman crime scene on his computer screen. There was something there, something important, but for some reason he couldn't figure it out. His agents had gone out to lunch, so the squad room was free of Tony's incessant chatter and the sound of Ziva cursing at her computer and smashing the keyboard. The peace and quiet was soon shattered when the elevator doors opened and the three agents disembarked, Tony and McGee arguing over the virtues of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue.

"It's classic, McGee," Tony said, his face the picture of sincerity, "you've got your Maria Sharapova, your Marissa Miller, your Veronica Verakova, barely dressed in the skimpiest bikinis photographed in exotic locations. What's not to like?" McGee shook his head as Tony continued, "Plus there's a history there, with classic beauties like Cheryl Tiegs, Vendela, Naomi Campbell, Elle McPherson."

"I'm not saying that it's not a great issue, Tony," McGee replied, "I'm just saying that the publishers are pandering to the baser instincts of their core demographics in order to sell more magazines."

"Well duh," Tony said, exasperated. "It's only the most anticipated issue of SI all year. Back issues are collector's items, pure gold."

"If you two are through discussing important literature," Gibbs said dryly, "maybe you can get to work on figuring out who killed Lance Corporal Whitman. You do remember Lance Corporal Whitman, don't you?"

The three agents gathered in front of Gibbs' desk. McGee started, "I looked up his bank records, credit card history, cell phone and land line records, nothing unusual." Tony continued, "Whitman was kind of a loner, Boss. His co-workers said he was pleasant enough, kept to himself, didn't seem to have a social life that anyone noticed."

"Maybe he just didn't talk about it," Ziva interjected.

Tony nodded. "He was a quiet guy, but if you look at his spending history, there's nothing there that would indicate a social life: no movies, restaurants, clubs." He looked over at McGee who nodded in agreement.

"And he seemed to be a model citizen," Ziva took up the narrative. "No outstanding warrants, no tickets, nothing that would put him on anyone's radar."

"So who would want him dead, and why?" Gibbs asked, frowning at the photo on his screen.

"What's that, Boss?" Tony asked.

"It's a picture from the crime scene," Gibbs replied. "McGee, put this up on the plasma." The four stood staring at the large screen. There was Whitman, lying face up, his hands folded on his chest, looking as if he were asleep except for the large pool of blood beneath his head.

"Why would someone pose him like that?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "I don't know. There's something there, something pointing to his killer, we just need to figure out what it is."

"Maybe," Tony said thoughtfully, "it's the body itself."

Gibbs turned to look at him. "Go on," he said.

"He looks like he's asleep," Tony continued. "Maybe someone wanted him to be comfortable, at peace."

"Someone who cared about him," Gibbs said softly, turning back to the plasma.

Tony nodded. "It could have been an accident, and whoever was with him panicked and ran, but couldn't stand leaving him sprawled on the floor like a bloody rag doll."

"Look into his family and friends," Gibbs said, "find out if anyone has been at his apartment recently." He headed back to his desk, pausing to look at Tony. "Good work," he said gruffly.

"Thanks, Boss," Tony grinned at the senior agent, his chest puffing out a bit at the rare compliment.

It turned out that Lance Corporal Theodore Whitman was killed accidentally during a rough-and-tumble wrestling match with his younger cousin, a frightened teenage boy who was devastated at the death of his favorite cousin. Whitman had hit his head when he was leaping at the young man, striking it on the edge of the coffee table with the full force of his 210-pound body. No charges were brought against the minor after Gibbs determined that it was an accident. His uncharacteristically gentle interrogation of the young man convinced him that there was no foul play, just bad luck.

Late Afternoon

"Hey, Ducky," Tony said cheerfully, walking into autopsy, "Gibbs wants to know if you have the cause of death on Petty Office Wiscowicz yet."

Doctor Mallard flipped up the visor of his protective helmet. "No, Tony, I do not," he said peevishly, "and I told Jethro that I would let him know when I know."

Tony held his hands up placatingly. "Whoa there, don't kill the messenger," he said.

Ducky sighed. "I'm sorry, Tony. This case is very frustrating, I can see no reason why this young man is lying here on my table."

The sliding doors swooshed open and Jimmy Palmer entered, his arms full of file folders. One of the files started to fall off the pile, and as Jimmy tried to adjust his stance he tripped over a cord and started to fall. Tony quickly grabbed the young man and pulled him away from the tray of sharp instruments he was about to land on.

"Steady there, Palmer," Tony said, helping the young man straighten up.

"Mr. Palmer, you almost impaled yourself on several sharp scalpels and saws," Ducky admonished. "You must be more careful. If Anthony hadn't been here you could have killed yourself."

Jimmy was pale. "I'm sorry, Doctor Mallard," he said shakily, "I just lost my balance." He looked at Tony gratefully. "Thank you, Tony."

"Hey, don't mention it," Tony said jovially, slapping the young man on the back. "What would we do without our favorite Autopsy Gremlin?" Jimmy grinned in return, coloring a bit at the playful nickname.

"I'll tell Gibbs what you said, Ducky," Tony said on his way out of the lab, "but don't be surprised if he comes down here himself."

"Of course not," muttered Ducky to himself as he turned back to the body on the table. "Now tell me, young man, why are you lying here on my table?"

Abby's Lab

"Hey, Abs," Tony shouted over the music blaring in the lab.

"Oh hey, Tony," yelled Abby, "what brings you here?" She reached over and turned down the volume on the boombox.

"Do I have to have a reason to come down to see my favorite Goth girl?" Tony said, grinning at the young woman.

"Not at all," she said, smiling cheekily, "I love your visits."

"Well," Tony looked embarrassed, "I did come down to ask if you had the DNA results on the Parker case."

Abby shook her head sadly. "Oh, Tony, you could have pretended for a few more minutes."

"I do love to visit you, you know that," Tony said quickly.

"I know," Abby said cheerfully, "I just like to mess with you." She turned to her computer and punched up a chart. "Here we go," she said.

"Um," Tony squinted at the screen, "what does it mean?"

"It means that your killer was a woman, mid to late-twenties, of Asian descent," she said. "Any suspects fitting that description?"

"Just one," Tony replied, "and Gibbs is going to have a field day with her. Thanks Abs, you're the best," he waved jauntily on his way out of the lab.

"You're welcome," Abby called out. Turning to Bert she said, "He's such a sweetie, isn't he Bert?" Bert made no reply.

Early Evening

It had to be a record, or maybe not. They solved two cases in one day, one an accidental death, the other a cold-blooded murder by a scorned woman. Gibbs was in a good mood, relatively speaking, and decided to give his team a break, releasing them earlier than usual for a Friday and giving them the weekend off, with the caveat that they keep their cell phones charged and ready, in case anything came up. He sat at his desk working on reports while he listened to the younger agents joke and spar as they packed up to leave.

"So Tony," McGee said, "got any plans for the weekend?"

"I have a late dinner date with a lovely lady," Tony replied, "and after that, who knows?"

"Is this a new lady?" Ziva asked.

"Why yes, Zeevah," Tony said smiling. "I just met her this morning."

"Three dates," Ziva said to McGee, who shook his head and said, "Five, Tony's due for a longer relationship."

"Very funny," Tony said, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. "You two should take your act on the road." The three headed toward the elevator. "Goodnight, Boss," Tony called out, "see you Monday. Try not to sleep under your boat all weekend."

"I'll take that under advisement, DiNozzo," Gibbs yelled back, smiling and shaking his head.

The elevator doors opened and the three entered the small compartment. "Really, Tony," Ziva said, "who is this new woman?"

Tony just smiled. He'd had a very good day and was looking forward to an even better evening. The doors closed as Ziva continued to pester Tony for information.

FIN