AN: For all those who share in my adoration of the funny, crazy joy that is Mr. Nick Miller. He's from the streets of Chicago, yo.


Alter Egos

There was something noble about dealing in liquor. It was time-honoured, straightforward and, for the most part, an easy gig. The shitty pay was offset by the not-to-be-sniffed-at number of women he charmed into bed with embarrassingly minimal effort – and the best part - he could waste years doing it. Years. The twenty-two year old version of him was living the dream. The thirty-year-old reality was mostly disgusted.

The late hour had thinned out his customer base until only "Silent George" and a couple of women silly on cocktails and tequila chasers remained; he decided to take a break so pulled up a stool and took a seat behind the bar. His bar, his three-foot defence from all the living that happened on the other side. Fuck it, he liked the distance. "Old Nick" had been right about that at least. Because he'd tried living once, he tried swimming in the mainstream and it wasn't for him. Responsible adulthood, not that the two were mutually-exclusive, was for other people, for people who could resist the compulsion to go out of their freaking minds under the pressure of it all.

He reached for his well-thumbed manuscript: "Julius Pepperwood – Zombie Detective". He'd taken to carrying it around with him pretty much every place he went. It was a re-working of his original novel, but so what? Pepperwood made everything better. The guy was a legend-in-waiting. As usual, the thick bundle of pages opened a third of the way through, at the following passage: "…the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse is our changed reality," Jessica Night said passionately. "There is no other version of the truth; how could there be? Truth is truth is truth. We need to adapt, Julius, or we die."

He couldn't seem to get beyond that part. He was 136 pages into his re-write and on his most positive of days, he believed what he had written was good. The other 363 days of the year, he doubted every single word that spilled from his pen. He read the same words again, wondered if he should cut out the part about truth being truth. Then he thought better of it and after staring at the closely spaced, jagged handwriting, (that if you concentrated on it for long enough looked like a scary, probably fatal, print-out from one of those heart monitor machines) he put down the manuscript and looked up to check on his customers.

"Silent George" was nursing the watery remainder of his once iced whisky, the best of it gone. The two drunken women were getting ready to leave. The brunette, the hotter of the two, was digging around in her purse and for some reason this was hysterically funny to her friend. He'd long ago stopped trying to figure out what made people laugh when they were trashed. Sober people just couldn't relate. The tall brunette then motioned him over. He fixed what he hoped was a genuine smile on his face and walked over to the far end of the bar. Up close, she smelled of wine, expensive perfume and someplace to be on a rainy Thursday night, and as she leaned forwards, he mimicked her posture. He knew he was breaking his own rule by allowing himself to be drawn over to the other side of the bar, but he didn't need to dig too deep to know that he'd be back on the right side of it again come morning. Her hand found the collar of his grey checked flannel shirt and she whispered words that were familiar but ultimately disappointing.

"What time do you get off tonight?"

"An hour, maybe".

"I'm Laura. Call me, okay?" She let go of his collar and handed him her business card. He looked down.

"Lawyer, aye?"

"Yeah, but don't let that put you off." Her hazel eyes flashed with amusement, and he smiled back.

"Never has before."

"Good. And you?"

"I'm Nick. I'm, as you've probably guessed, a bartender, but don't let that put you off."

"Never has before," she shot back.

Just shy of an hour later, "Silent George" called time. Nick often let him do it because the old guy really seemed to get a kick out of ringing the damn bell. He then escorted the bar's most loyal patron off the premises and into a waiting cab, then he hurried back inside. Twenty minutes later, he'd cashed-up the till and stashed the larger bills and the bulk of the change in the office safe. The rest stayed in the till drawer, which he put back and locked. He sprinted around the bar and turned off all the lights, except the one that illuminated the staff exit. Then he left. He stepped outside into the rain and pulled the hood of his worn green sweatshirt over his head and jogged over to his car. He sat there for maybe a minute contemplating what to do, but he really didn't try very hard to ignore the way her business card was burning a hole in his back pocket and besides, he didn't have any better place to be tonight. Schmidt was sure to be working late, Winston, who was still channelling the now depressingly successful Mr. Mojo, was on a date with Daisy and Jess was…well, Jess was home. She was always home these days. And when Jess was home, he needed to be someplace else.

He slid his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. Holding the card in his right hand, he reached for his cell phone with his left and then dialled. The phone rang until it connected to an answer service. He didn't leave a message. Shrugging, he started the engine and reversed out of the small staff parking lot and joined the late night blur of traffic. So he'd find something else to do. Maybe he'd write some more. Yeah. Sure.

The Loft

Nick slid his key into the lock and held it in place as he listened through the door for signs that people might be in the living room. His plan was to sneak in and race straight to his room; he'd stay there until he had to leave for the afternoon shift the next day. He could hear voices. One voice definitely belonged to Jess, the other, was...Schmidt. But they weren't in the living room. No. He pressed his face tighter to the door and closed his eyes, concentrating. They were in the bathroom. There was slight echo every time they spoke. So he let himself in, and after making sure to close the front door softly behind him, he fast-walked his way into his bedroom.

Once inside, he listened again. Their voices were much clearer now. This was what his life consisted of since he went insane and kissed Jess – hiding out and eavesdropping. Occasionally, he liked to mix it up and so he threw in some well-earned miserable drunkenness, but mostly he just hid and listened.

"Can you even see out from under there, Jess? I mean, really. It looks like you have two giant hairy caterpillars stuck to your face. Worse still, they're close to meeting in the middle."

"My eyebrows are not that bad, Schmidt."

Jess turned away from her roommate and stared into the mirror above the bathroom sink. She lifted her hair off her forehead and took a closer look. Maybe Schmidt did have a point. But she should get a pass this time. She was coming off a break-up and something had to give. Sadly, it wasn't her appetite. She'd eaten forty-nine Double Stuf Oreos since lunchtime. And lunch itself had consisted of a bowl of peanut M&M's and a 40oz cup of Cherry Coke. It was entirely possible that she'd developed Type II Diabetes in the two weeks since Sam had dumped her.

"See? Hairy and hideous. Consider this an intervention, Jessica Day."

Jess spun back around. "So my eyebrows are horrifying. So I've worn these same pyjamas for three days. So I've only been brushing my hair with my fingers. So I'm wallowing in my own filth. So WHAT, Schmidt!"

"So you need to try and move on. Besides, Sam wasn't the man for you. I mean, first, there was the obvious disparity in the hotness department…"

"Aw, that's sweet of you," she softened, grasping onto the compliment as was her tendency when spiralling into romantic despair.

"Yeah…um, not what I was going to say. Let's face it - Sam was a honey; you're more of a sweet chut-en-ay. You're full of girlie sweetness, Jess, of course you are and you know I adore you, but you lack…smoothness. You lack clarity of hotness. It's like, I know it's in there somewhere, but it's buried under all of…that." Schmidt waved his hands in her general direction and she pulled her oversized purple and white polka dot dressing gown tighter around her, her hands crossing her chest. "Your allure is a little harder to fathom," he continued, "whereas Sam was…Sam was sex nectar, you know?"

"It's because he's a paediatrician," Jess confirmed, her head bowed. "The combination of his good looks and his ability to administer to sick children is killer. I can't compete with that."

"No one can, Jess." Schmidt said seriously, as he pulled a pair of tweezers from his emergency grooming kit and passed them to her. The kit was one of an identical set of three. He kept one stored in the glove box of his car, another in his desk drawer at work, the other here in the bathroom. He didn't care what Nick said – manscaping wasn't some "elitist fad", and it wasn't "something men did when they were tired of being 'real' men", and it wasn't "Anti-Chicagoan". Ugh. Nick Miller was an idiot. For so many reasons.

"Thanks," Jess said as she leaned in closer to the mirror.

"Start with the middle eyebrow, Frida, and soon you'll be good as new."

Tears sprung to her eyes as she went to work. They were mostly pain-related. "Sam was a real catch, wasn't he?"

"I know he made my imaginary lady parts moist." Schmidt shrugged as he scowled at his own reflection. Since reuniting sexually with Cece he wasn't getting nearly enough sleep. His scowl morphed into a full on smile just as Jess yelled back at him: "Ewwww, Schmidt! JAR!"

Nick backed away from the bedroom door. He did that. He'd made Jess miserable, and for what? A kiss. A kiss that was never going to go anywhere. He didn't feel brave anymore. He didn't feel confident about anything. That time had passed, as he always knew it would. Of all his alter egos, 'Trenchcoat Nick' was the worst yet.


AN: Not sure if this is the end. If I can summon the will from somewhere (because writing for New Girl is hard), I might add to this. We'll see. Thanks for reading. :)