Winston, Schmidt and Nick are crammed onto the couch, ostensibly watching, but not particularly paying attention to, an old Seinfeld rerun. Nick cringes and turns up the volume on the television, as the distinctive sounds of Jess and Russell fighting reverberate from the closed door of her bedroom. "Well, this is awkward," Schmidt mutters, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of noises in the apartment.

"What?" Nick asks.

"I SAID . . . THIS IS AWKWARD," yells back Schmidt.

On the television, George Costanza is explaining the concept of shrinkage. "I was in the pool!" He exclaims, hands tugging defensively at his swim trunks. "I was in the pool!"

Nick turns the volume on the television back down.

"This reminds me of when my parents used to fight, back when I was a kid. Right now, I have this sudden urge to hide under my bed, and suck my thumb," Winston remarks, hugging himself tightly.

"You were a thumb sucker! I knew it!" Schmidt announces. "That's why your nail beds are such a disaster."

"They are not," Winston retorts, looking self consciously at the tips of his fingers.

Meanwhile, Nick keeps casting furtive glances toward Jess' bedroom door. "I don't know, guys. I just . . . I feel like I should be doing something to help her. I mean, I am partly responsible for what happened today."

Schmidt ruffles Nick's hair, as if he's a dog, who just succeeded in rolling over on command. "Nick . . . buddy . . . take it from someone with experience in these matters. When a woman decides to brand herself, as a sign of her undying devotion to you, there is nothing you, or anyone else, can do to stop her."

Winston shakes his head, and smirks. "OK, Schmidt . . . tell me one time when a woman tattooed herself for you."

Schmidt thinks about this for a moment. "Sharon Anderson . . . sophomore year," he replies confidently.

Winston rolls his eyes. "That wasn't a tattoo, you jerk. She just got drunk, and let you write, 'Property of Schmidt' on her boob in permanent marker."

"Same difference," Schmidt pouts.

Nick, of course, hasn't been listening to any of this, as he distractedly runs his hand through his hair. "You guys don't understand. This isn't just about Sarah." He takes a deep breath. "OK . . . I wasn't going to tell you this. And I really hope this doesn't make things weird in the house. But . . . earlier today . . . Jess and I . . . well, we kind of . . . kissed."

Schmidt grins widely. "Today? You kissed her today?"

Nick furrows his brow. This is not exactly the response he was expecting. "Uh . . . yeah . . . I did, Schmidt."

"And, just so we are clear, what day is today . . . on the calendar, I mean?"

"It's Wednesday . . . the 15th," Nick says cautiously, not quite sure where his roommate is going with this.

Upon hearing this, Schmidt immediately bounces up from the couch and positions himself directly in front of Winston, his arm outstretched in the universal sign for "money." "Oh yeah, that's right! Pay up, son!" He exclaims triumphantly.

Winston grumbles, digs into his pocket, and slaps a crumpled $20 dollar bill into his eager roommate's waiting palm.

Nick's jaw drops, as he looks from one roommate to another. "Am I missing something here . . . or were you two actually betting on when I would kiss Jess . . . while she was dating someone else?

Still basking in the glow of his recent victory, a cocksure Schmidt returns to his spot on the couch. "We actually made the bet the day you and Julia broke up. The timeline was three weeks. I took 'under,' and Winston took 'over' . . . because, clearly, he doesn't know you, like I do."

"Dammit, Nick!" Winston grouses. "You couldn't just keep it in your pants for two more days . . . Mister Instant Gratification."

I've been called that a lot today. Nick thinks to himself. "You know, I'm not going to lie, this makes me feel a little used and dirty," he muses.

Schmidt shakes his head. "Come on, Nick. Have you seen you two together, lately? Every day, it's like watching the first ten minutes of a porno, before you get to the good stuff. Easiest money I ever made!"

At that moment, Russell comes barging out of Jess' bedroom, looking furious.

"Hey, Russell . . . I . . . uh . . . I hope we can still be friends after this," Nick calls after the older man.

The door slams abruptly. And, just like that, the Fancyman is gone.

"I still kind of love you," he adds hopefully to the empty space that Russell used to occupy.

"He is never going to play True American with us ever again, is he?" Winston mutters sadly.

"Not a chance," responds Schmidt.

A short time later . . .

Jess is huddled in her bed, with her knees tucked into her chest, while she listens (and sings along to) "All by Myself," by Celine Dion at top volume. Suddenly, she hears a tentative triple-knock at her door. It's Nick.

Jess looks up at her roommate dolefully, her always rosy cheeks looking ever-so-slightly blotchy from a recent crying jag. "I wouldn't come near me, if I were you," Jess warns petulantly. "I might traumatize your future children for life."

Nick smiles, as a wave of tenderness washes over him. Even after crying her eyes out, Jess somehow manages to still look gorgeous. Sometimes he finds himself wondering if she is even real.

"Nah," he says nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. "Nick Junior is a pretty resilient little guy. He doesn't traumatize that easily."

Jess' eyes widen. "Nick Junior . . . is that what you call your . . . chicken head" she pauses uncomfortably, inclining her head exaggeratedly toward her roommate's pants.

Nick rolls his eyes. "It's my kid, Jess . . . I'm talking about my fake kid."

Jess blushes. "Oh . . . oops! Well, then, I'm sorry I called you a wiener, Nick Junior," Jess says sheepishly to the imaginary child standing next to Nick.

"He forgives you," Nick replies, before shyly motioning toward the bed. "Uhh . . . may I?"

"Sure," Jess replies, scooting over slightly to make room for Nick.

They are sitting shoulder-to-shoulder now. Jess finds the warmth of Nick's body both comforting and arousing. There's a part of her that wants to rest her head on his chest, and give in to the uncontrollable sobs that have been threatening to take over her body, ever since Russell left. And yet there's another, even stronger, part of her that wants to rip Nick's flannel off, toss it to the ground, and ravage his body like a feral cat. Instead, she just forces herself to sit up a little straighter, bravely raising her eyes to meet Nick's steady gaze, while waiting to hear what he has to say.

"So . . . um . . . remember when I first broke up with Julia. And you came into my room and gave me that plant?" Nick begins conversationally.

Jess grins at the recent memory. "Of course, I do! I still visit it every night and sing it show tunes, while you're at work, to promote its growth and well-being."

"Well, that's . . . ah . . . nice for the plant, I guess," Nick offers. "Anyway . . . I didn't know it at the time, but that plant was exactly what I needed to get through a very dark period in my life. You really helped me, Jess. And now . . . I'd like the chance to try and return the favor."

"So, you bought me a plant?" Jess inquires skeptically.

"Yes," Nick replies. "Well . . . no . . . I didn't literally get you a plant. But metaphorically . . . I . . . OK . . . just . . . here," he says finally, handing Jess the brown paper bag he's been hiding behind his back, since he entered the room.

Jess looks up at Nick with curiosity, as she takes the bag, and gently empties its contents onto her bed.

Nick looks away, suddenly feeling embarrassed about his gift. "I . . . uh . . . went out and got it for you, while you and Russell were in here . . . talking."

Jess reads the label on the back of the package out loud, "Temporary Tattoo . . . wet skin thoroughly, before applying. Awww, Nick! You got me a baby chicken tattoo," she coos, holding the piece of paper up to the light, so she can see it better.

Nick grins widely, clearly pleased with Jess' response. "Not just any baby chicken tattoo," Nick explains. "See how it's wearing those little black emo glasses on his face? That's Chicken Little."

Jess nods gleefully. "You're right. That is Chicken Little!" Then she frowns. "Wait . . . isn't that the story where the little chicken thinks the sky is falling, so he gets all his friends to hide in the fox's den for shelter. And then, at the end of the story, the fox eats them all?"

Nick grimaces. "Wow . . . I should really have paid more attention during Kindergarten story time."

Jess pushes the tattoo back toward her roommate. "Umm . . . is this your snarky Nick-way of telling me that I'm destined to be eaten by a fox?"

Nick puts his palm to his forehead, as if this conversation is giving him a headache, which actually isn't that far from the truth. "NO! Absolutely not. Man, I knew I should have gone with the plant. You see, Chicken Little got all upset, because he thought the world was ending. But all it ended up being was a loose wood chip."

Nick continues, "When I first broke up with Caroline . . . and dropped out of law school . . . and got a chicken tattooed on my ass . . . I really thought my life was over. I thought I'd never be happy again . . . never fall in love again. The same thing happened with Julia. But it wasn't true, either time."

"The sky wasn't really falling. I just thought it was. You were the one who helped me see that. And the sky isn't falling on you either, Jess. So . . . you almost got an 11-year old girl, all tatted up. So . . . your rich boyfriend dumped you for it. So what? It doesn't mean you aren't going to find love again. In fact, you'll probably find it a lot sooner than you think," he concludes, a bit wistfully, eyes suddenly becoming focused on the floor.

Jess sighs, as she absentmindedly runs her finger across the surface of the tattoo. "But what if I'm not Chicken Little? What if I'm a Fox?"

Nick raises his eyebrows and smirks. "Way to be modest about your appearance, Jess," he jokes.

Jess blushes, and pokes Nick in the chest with her elbow. "I'm saying . . . what if I don't deserve happiness . . . or love, because, deep down, I'm a terrible person? I mean, look at me. In the course of 24-hours, I practically forced you to take off your pants, and show me your ass. You know, that's considered rape in some countries. I almost lost an eleven-year old girl in a tattoo parlor run by a guy named Razor. My boyfriend leaves town for a day . . . and I . . ."

Nick grabs Jess firmly by the shoulders. "You're kidding, right? Jess, you're the kindest, warmest, most ridiculously giving person I know. For heaven sakes, even gun-toting lunatics, homeless drug addicts, and pervy landlords like you! Don't let this . . . what we did. . ."

Jess brushes her hand gently across Nick's slightly stubbly cheek, causing him to instantly lose his train of thought. "Thank you, Nick," she says softly. "For the tattoo . . . for everything you just said . . . for being there for me today, when I really needed it . . . for always being there for me, when I need it. You're so much more amazing than you ever give yourself credit for, Nick Miller."

Now, it's Nick's turn to blush. "Jess . . . I" He fumbles for the right words.

"So, are you going to help me put on this tattoo or what?" Jess interrupts, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

"I think I can manage that. Where do you want it?" He inquires, shaking himself out of his trance.

With a grin, Jess gets on all fours, and shoves her ass in Nick's face. Nick's eyes widen, as he tries to tame a now-familiar stirring that his currently creeping up below his belt. "So . . . you want me to tattoo your butt . . . with a chicken. OK . . . as long as you're sure" he says amusedly, as he moves his hand toward the fabric of Jess' sweatpants, and begins to gently tug it downward.

Jess turns her head back toward Nick, with a naughty wink. "Got ya!" She says cheerily.

"I knew that," fibs Nick, shrugging his shoulders. "I totally knew that."

"Actually, I think I want it on my back. Rumor has it people with back tats are bad ass," Jess replies.

"You know, I've heard that about people with back tats too" replies Nick with a nod. "Come sit over here, we can use the water from that bottle," he offers, grabbing the Poland Spring bottle from Jess' nightstand, and pouring a bit into his palm.

Jess sidles up toward Nick, and pulls her shirt down over her left shoulder blade, so that the soft ivory skin on her back is exposed. Nick then gently brushes her dark hair from her shoulder, and begins to rub his wet palm across the surface of her back. Jess closes her eyes and smiles, as Nick reaches over and grabs the tattoo. As he presses it into her back, Nick can smell the intoxicating scent of Jess' vanilla bodywash, and strawberry shampoo. He bites his lip, not sure how much more of this his poor sexually frustrated body can take.

Jess shivers involuntarily, as she feels Nick's soft, warm, breath on the back of her neck.

"All done," Nick says, as he gently removes the paper from Jess' shoulder blade.

"How does it look?" Jess asks curiously, turning her head abruptly, so that her face is inches from Nick's own.

"Beautiful," he says huskily.

He's clearly not talking about the Chicken Little tattoo.

"Nick," Jess whispers staring at him intently.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I raped your face with my tongue today."

Nick smiles. "I'm not," he replies.

"Really? Are you sure?" Jess inquires, moving closer to him.

Nick nods.

"Good . . . because I was actually lying about being sorry," Jess admits, as she gently pushes him backward on the bed, ripping open his shirt with her deft fingertips, as she'd been wanting to do, ever since he entered the room.

Sure, he's her roommate, which will inevitably cause problems somewhere down the line. And, yeah, she technically just got out of a relationship, about an hour ago. Then again, perhaps, one of the benefits of always thinking that the sky is falling is that it causes you to live life to its fullest . . . since every moment, might be your last. Jess thinks to herself. Then, Nick starts kissing her neck, and she stops thinking entirely . . .

As Nick's hands move furtively up Jess' back, tugging intently at the fabric of her t-shirt, he catches a glimpse of her brand new temporary Chicken Little tattoo. This time, he's quite certain it's winking at him. So, he winks right back, before turning off the lamp on Jess' bedside table.

Outside on the couch, a very pissed off looking Schmidt returns a familiar looking $20 dollar bill to a smug-looking Winston, as the distinct sound of amorous moans can be heard emanating from Jess' bedroom. "Damn . . . you know, I really did think they were going to wait until tomorrow," Schmidt grumbles. "Can't we do like a best two out of three, or something?"

"Sorry Schmidtty," replies Winston gleefully. "But all is fair in love and chicken tattoos."