"They call me the anchor, because I tend to bring the women I date down."

Seated just centimeters apart from one another on the floor outside Jess' bedroom, Jess and Nick are trying in vain to talk young Sarah off the metaphorical ledge, or . . . more specifically, out of Jess' bedroom. While Nick is busy admitting to all the things that should render him completely un-dateable to any self-respecting eleven year-old (or late twenty-something-year old, for that matter), Jess finds herself inconveniently captivated by his eyes. They really are quite a unique shade of brown . . . not at all poo-colored, as Sarah had suggested. Jess would classify them more as mocha-fudge, with just the slightest hint of green around the edges . . . an aspect of them that only becomes apparent when he smiles, like he is doing right now.

Mint mocha fudge, Jess decides, which, coincidentally, also happens to be her favorite flavor of ice cream.

But it isn't just the color of Nick's eyes that are drawing Jess into their orbit, like an ocean at high tide. It's something more intangible. Nick's eyes are wise beyond their years . . . slightly jaded, perhaps, but also unusually kind. They are looking at her right now . . . with a look of amusement, and something else she can't quite place . . . intensity, maybe, or longing . . .

"I have a tattoo of a rubber chicken on my butt," Nick blurts out, suddenly, shaking Jess out of her reverie.

"NICK MILLER, you are SUCH a liar," Jess exclaims loudly, playfully punching her roommate in the stomach. "I know, for a fact, that there is no such tattoo on your posterior. Because, I saw you nak . . ."

Jess stops herself just shy of revealing something extremely inappropriate to the 11-year-old girl on the other side of the door. "I mean . . . ummm . . . I know for a fact that you don't have a rubber chicken tattoo on your butt . . . because I was born with a psychic gift for knowing what kind of tattoos people have on their body. Not because I have ever seen you naked . . . because only married people should see each other naked. And you and I are not married," she rambles awkwardly, her voice sounding unusually loud and high-pitched.

Nick grins sheepishly, and responds to Jess' inquiry, equally loudly, for Sarah's benefit. "Yes, Jess . . . you do . . . have a psychic sixth sense about the kind of tattoos people have on their bodies. But, if I recall correctly, that psychic sixth sense only applies to people's fronts. And that means that you have never seen . . . er . . . I mean . . . that your magical tattoo-finding powers would be incapable of detecting what kind of tattoos I . . . I mean . . . people like me . . . have on their backsides?"

Jess' eyes widen, and a mischievous smirk upturns the corners of her mouth. Nick is right. She only saw him naked from the front. His backside still remains a complete mystery to her. Then again, this gives him all the more incentive to lie . . .

"Show me," she mouths silently, pointing to the bathroom door, as she quietly rises to her feet.

Nick inclines his head toward Jess' still locked bedroom door, his face a question mark.

Jess nods. "Um, Sarah? Nick and I are going to have some silent time, while we reflect on what terrible people we both are to date. So . . . ahh . . . it's going to be quiet out here, for a little while. You should . . . umm . . . take this time to think about what awful people we are too," Jess explains, as she tiptoes to the bathroom, taking exaggeratedly wide steps, as she moves.

Nick just stares at her, shaking his head, dumbfounded.

When Jess sees that Nick isn't following her into the bathroom, she turns on her heel, and folds her arms across her chest. "Get over here, and show me your rumpshaker, Nick Miller. Or, be prepared to be called a liar, liar, pants on fire, for all eternity," she stage whispers.

Well, Nick certainly doesn't want to have his pants set on fire. (It actually happened to him once, during a particularly rough night at the bar. And it hurt like hell.) So, he follows Jess into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

"OK, so remember I told you about that time I got involved in that cock fight in Mexico, after Caroline dumped me? Well, apparently, the night didn't end there," Nick whispers to Jess, as he feels the heat rise in his neck.

Why am I so nervous? It's just Jess . . . in the bathroom with me . . . about to see my butt, for the first time. Nick thinks to himself. Wow, now, I'm REALLY nervous.

"Yeah, but a rubber chicken tattoo? Really?" Jess exclaims, raising her eyebrows with skepticism.

"Hey, it was a really vulnerable time for me! And that chicken really understood me, in a way no mere mortal could," Nick muses wistfully. "He's my home, Jess. My home!"

"Shut up, and pull down your pants, Farmer Miller," Jess replies sternly.

"OK . . . but you have to promise not to laugh. You know, like you did that other time," Nick pleads.

Jess puts her hands on both of Nick's shoulders, and looks him straight in the eyes. "Nick, I absolutely promise not to laugh at your rubber chicken tattoo," she says solemnly.

"Or my butt, in general . . ." Nick adds solemnly.

"Or your butt, in general," Jess parrots obediently.

"All right . . . but be prepared. This is something that, once you've seen it, you can't unsee," Nick warns, as he unzips his fly, and lowers his pants toward his ankles, turning his body, so that his backside is facing Jess.

Little do Nick and Jess know that, at some point during this conversation, Sarah has emerged from Jess' bedroom. Now, she is standing silently, with her ear against the bathroom door and her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling.

"Woah! It's SO big! I didn't expect it to be so big," Sarah hears Jess say from the other side of the bathroom door. "Can I touch it?"

At this point, Nick is bending over awkwardly, and grabbing onto the sink for balance. "Um . . . yeah . . . I guess so. Just be gentle, OK? No one's really touched it before."

Sarah lets out a gasp that she hopes her babysitters don't hear . . .

Inside the bathroom, Jess tentatively places her finger on the large rubber chicken tattoo emblazoned across Nick's left butt cheek. Gaining more courage, she eventually replaces that finger with her entire hand. Slowly, but surely, she starts lovingly petting the darn thing, as if it's a real live chicken.

Nick bites his lower lip, and allows his eyes to fall closed for just a moment. He's shocked, and more than a bit freaked out, by how aroused this is making him. To put it kindly, Nick's "feathers have been ruffled." And he sincerely hopes that Jess doesn't notice.

Then, Jess starts using her fingers to make the fake chicken tattoo talk. "Hellooo . . ." she begins, with an oddly stilted voice that vaguely resembles that of an old British man. "I am the chicken on Nick's bum. I've been here for . . ." she pauses. "Nick, how long has it been since you dropped out of law school?"

"Six years," Nick admits glumly.

"Six years!" Jess concludes, resuming her Chicken Voice. "It gets so lonely here, sometimes. I would very much enjoy a female chicken companion on my other butt cheek - so, that the two of us could make eggs together."

Nick laughs in spite of himself. "Um, Jess?"

"Yeah, Nick?"

"Why does my butt chicken have a bad British accent?"

Jess ponders this for a moment. "You're right! You got him in Mexico! He probably speaks Spanish. The Spanish word for chicken is 'pollo,' right?"

Nick groans. "Yes, it's 'pollo,' Jess. Can I please pull up my pants, now?"

"Oh . . . yeah . . . sure," Jess says, feeling suddenly shy, as she turns to face the wall.

(Touching Nick's posterior has stirred up some feelings in Jess that she's not quite sure she's ready to explore . . .)

Upon hearing the telltale sounds of Nick's fly being zipped, Jess puts her hand on the doorknob. She is about ready to exit, when she feels Nick's hand on her shoulder, warm, and inviting. She turns abruptly, and finds herself staring directly into Nick's mint mocha fudge eyes. Her breathing quickens, and her mouth feels suddenly dry.

"So, what about you, Jess? Any secret tattoos that I should know about?" Nick inquires, his voice sounding ragged and husky.

Jess leans back against the wall, as she feels her heart beat faster in her chest. "Well, I . . . uh . . .," she stutters, as she stares into Nick's eyes, mesmerized.

He licks his lips, as she moves in closer, her eyes closing. By this point, the anticipation has become so unbearable, that Nick finds it almost physically painful. He watches as her lips pucker ever-so-slightly. We're really doing this. Nick thinks to himself. This is actually going to happen.

"We should get back to Sarah," Jess mumbles, as she reaches behind her back to open the bathroom door, thereby, breaking the spell between them.

Nick sighs, as he reluctantly emerges from the bathroom. "Hey look, your door is open! She must have come out, while we were . . . um . . . yeah."

Jess tries to convince herself that she's relieved, and not disappointed. After all, she has a perfectly lovely boyfriend in Russell. Far be it for her to let an unexpected moment of twirliness screw up a good thing.

A little extra time spent babysitting, Sarah, is just what I need, she tells herself. Because, Lord knows, I can't trust myself alone with Nick, right now.

"Sarah!" She calls out, poking her head inside her bedroom door.

Silence.

"SARAH!" Jess calls again, more loudly, as she peers into Nick's room, then Winston's, then Schmidt's.

"SARAH!" Nick's voice joins hers, as he searches the kitchen, the living room, and inside the coat closet. "Uhh . . . Jess?"

Jess turns to find Nick staring at the kitchen countertop. "Her backpack is gone," he tells her, apprehensively.

Immediately, Jess dashes toward the front door, which, just moments before had been double-locked and chained. Now, it is fully unlocked, and ever-so-slighty ajar.

Jess raises her hand to her forehead, and grabs on to the wall, to keep from passing out. "Oh my God, Nick!" She gasps. "I think I just lost my boyfriend's kid!"