Summary: Nick Miller is completely, 100% normal about all things Jessica Day. Including her smile, her laugh--ah, fuck. He's doomed. NickJess ft. pining!Nick
Anon: I just saw you write for New Girl! I am in my yearly rewatch of the show so I am so happy you write for it! Maybe the loft gang and CeCe can be playing a game of true American and somehow during the game it comes out that Jess is incredibly ticklish. Everyone is too focused on the game to use it to their advantage at the moment, but nick remembers and maybe later when him and Jess are together, he decided to test his new found knowledge and see just how ticklish Jess really is.
While this isn’t set during a particular episode, I was thinking HEAVILY about s2 ep15, Cooler. One of the greatest episodes of the whole show, hands down. I just wanted to write pining Nick tbh.
True American is the best goddamn game ever invented. It defines a man at his core level. Everything that’s ever mattered to Nick is on the line in this game. His dignity, his pride, his dignity…
He honestly can’t remember what they’re playing for. Something involving the sink. Or a drink? Unclear, but irrelevant. Nick is the king of an aluminum can palace and his citizens will thrive under his leadership. This is his birthright.
They’re playing True American: Catan Edition tonight. Each player defends their own small nations and attempts to crush the others, throwing their leaders to the molten lava below. It’s the smartest thing Winston’s ever come up with.
“Duel for my amusement,” Nick slurs, waving his paper towel roll scepter around. The cardboard crown on his head slips down over his eyes. Cece blows a raspberry at him. He lobs a balled-up piece of paper at her.
Jess plays a fanfare into her backup kazoo—Schmidt threw away her main one—and draws angry eyebrows onto the smiley face of her country’s flag. A declaration of war.
Sober Jess is all for political progress and human rights, but Drunk Jess? Maniacal, power-hungry, and so very hot.
Focus, Miller.
“Two, four, six, eight! Who do we appreciate?” Jess climbs onto one of the kitchen chairs and puts a colander on her head. A warrior’s helm. Nick smiles at her.
In their corner of the living room, Winston and Schmidt whisper furiously. At some point in the last hour, Winston had ascended to Grand Advisor of Schmidt’s Creek. Schmidt had lost the ability to speak after can number two, when Cece had flirted him out of all of his natural resources and a third of his land. Nick had been trying to think of how to poach Winston to Nicklandia, but he couldn’t think of a plan that didn’t involve saying ‘please’ until he passed out.
“Schmidt’s Creek will not challenge today!” Winston crushes his beer can against Schmidt’s forehead. Schmidt doesn’t even blink.
“Ruth Gader Binsburg! I challenge your weird little colony, Jess,” Cece shouts, messily hopping onto the chair next to Jess. They start some combination of swatting at each other and clutching on for dear life. Schmidt looks up at Cece like a drunk, lovesick puppy. Nick rolls his eyes.
Thank god he doesn’t look like that.
Does he look like that?
Shit. He’s missing the game.
“Yeah? Guess what—” Jess knocks her knuckles against the colander helmet, winces, and then points at Cece— “I’m the Queen of England, bitch.”
Nick’s not sure what’s elapsed in the apparently three years since he was last paying attention, but he knows by the way that Cece gasps that someone’s dying on the living room and/or kitchen floor tonight. Jess cackles and puts her hands on her hips. They start yelling, but even if they’re saying real human words, which he’s pretty sure they’re not, he’s not processing it. Jess looks so stupid in that little holey hat—someone should invent a word for that thing—and she’s adorable.
Nick leans his cheek on his palm and smiles wider. Does she know her nose scrunches when she’s annoyed?
Nick leans a little too far and loses his balance. Half of his aluminum fortress tumbles down. When he looks back up, Jess and Cece haven’t budged. Or blinked. Cece squints at Jess and it’s clear the conversation has ascended to psychic levels that even Drunk Nick can’t access. He tries though. Mostly gives himself a headache.
Something in their eye conversation must shift, because Cece gets this look on her face. Like pure, concentrated mischief. The aura off of her is so powerful that everyone scoots back a bit. Cece starts stretching and cracking her knuckles.
“Waitwaitwait, Cece, you don’t have to do this.” Jess holds her hands up in immediate surrender, but she’s smiling hard enough to brighten the room. A little nervous giggle picks up in the back of her throat and she starts to turn pinker than the boxed rosé that forms her section of the living room.
“Oh, but I do. Surrender. Now.” Cece points to the floor. Which is lava. Cruel way to go.
Jess looks at her best friend with the kind of profound resignation only possible when piss drunk. She sighs deeply, staring at the floor…
And then launches herself at Cece with a war cry.
Cece doesn’t even flinch. She catches Jess, smirks, and starts tickling her sides with vicious precision. Jess lets out a giggly shriek and crumples, sinking right down into the lava. The colander tumbles off of her head and rolls into Nick’s fortress.
The sound worms itself into Nick’s brain, taking up residence alongside all the other little Jess things that drive him nuts. It distracts him hard enough that by the time Winston arises as Supreme Leader of the Loft, Nick can’t even trace the path of his defeat.
………
Even when sobriety beats them over the head the next morning, Nick can remember nothing but the sweet music of Jess’s laugh. And the shape of her smile.
God he’s hopeless.
The slow march of the week brings some relief in the sense that a) Nick remembers that he really doesn’t do the whole ‘feelings’ thing and b) alcohol makes anyone look like an angel walking the earth. He is a grown ass man and Jess is an annoying little craft goblin. He can be normal. She’s normal. No need to get worked up over her.
“You look like Mr. Rogers’s grumpy cousin.” Jess snickers, fiddling with the sleeve of Nick’s hideous cardigan.
“You done? You finished?” He pulls his sleeve away from her. It’s really Schmidt’s, which she very well knows. Nick’s only wearing it because Schmidt’s being weird about Cece again, and the only way to survive that is to bend to his will. Schmidt’s already dehydrated himself twice this week trying to show off his muscles more, Nick doesn’t want to add to that by making the guy cry. He’d never stop.
Jess, however, doesn’t seem to understand the magnitude of this manly sacrifice. She’s too busy laughing at him.
“Mmmm, no, I don’t think I am. You look like a Muppet.” She pinches his cheek. He rolls his eyes.
“Well, that’s just a compliment.”
“No, no. You look like the bird. The bird with the eyebrows—“ Jess pauses as her giggles overtake her— “You look like Sam the Eagle.”
Jess folds over into his shoulder with laughter and smacks his chest. The warmth of it almost distracts him from the comment.
Almost.
“Yeah, laugh it up, Jess. C’mere—“ He drags her across the couch by the ankle and latches onto her sides. She makes that adorable sound again, that giggly shriek, and flails like a worm on a hook. She tries to push his face away. He swats her hands aside like it’s nothing. When reaches for him again—futile, really—he snatches her wrists in one hand, pins them down, and tickles with the other.
Her whole face burns. He chooses to ignore it for both of their sakes.
“Let me know when you’re ready to apologize. Take your time.” He does a little pinchy thing with his fingers and Jess lets out a high-pitched mess of syllables. She throws her head back and cackles, arching up into him.
“Hmm, yeah, see none of that sounded like ‘You’re the best, Nick Miller’. Try again.” He pokes all over her torso, fast and wild. He lets go of her and adds his other hand into the mix. Every time she tries to talk, he speeds up, making her laugh at his silliness along with his hands. She kicks her legs and lets out a little giggly growl. Nick smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.
“Nick!” She grabs his wrists but doesn’t stop him. His stomach flips. She’s so overwhelming.
“That’s my name.” He skitters his fingers up her ribs to distract himself from the lump in his throat.
Jess flails and nearly takes them both off the couch and into the next life. Nick catches himself before he collapses on top of her, but it puts their faces mere inches apart. The space of a breath. He can see the faint freckles across her nose, all brought forth by the pink flush down her cheeks and neck. As she catches her breath, lips parted, her laughter simmers low in her chest. He brushes her hair out of her face. His hand lingers on her cheek.
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Does she know that?
Nick gets the deep, burning urge to kiss her senseless. To download all these embarrassing, vulnerable thoughts from his brain to hers. To show her how deep this goes. To drink of her like the wine at restaurants he can never afford.
No. Not like this. She deserves better than this.
Than him.
He starts to pull away, awkwardly clearing his throat. Jess surges forward and Nick’s stupid little monkey brain gleefully claps its hands together, shouting this is it! It’s happening! Nick’s brain activity screeches to a halt. He stares at her mouth and freezes.
Jess flips them over and starts tickling his ears like some kind of insane supervillain.
“No! Jessica!” He turtles and attempts to fling himself to safety. All he accomplishes is hanging off the back of the couch, leaving his knees in reach of Jess’s evil nails—
One day he will be smart about Jessica Day, but he concedes that it won’t be today. But as she destroys him and Schmidt’s stupid, hopefully inexpensive cardigan, he secretly hopes the day never arrives.
The thing about comfort couples is that they don't have to be compatible. Sure, some lucky ones are but the crux of a comfort couple is two people who can make each other feel better just by being there. It's about going home to each other, wanting to tell each other everything and finding true comfort in each other's arms.
aziraphale's just going to start setting people up with demons to make it a thing
“You’re planning to live with a demon,” the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale says, gently. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Jess says, nodding eagerly. “I’m infiltrating. He won’t know that I’m an angel and I’ll thwart him from the inside and save the souls of the two other humans that live there. Doesn’t it sound like a movie?”
“. . .yes, of course. Now, my dear, you two have been the angel and demon for that area since the late 1700s,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “I suspect that he already knows.”
“. . .Nick is really easy to trick,” she says, hopefully.
“I don’t doubt it,” Aziraphale says, “but I suspect that this is just a story for our sake. Are you friendly with this demon?”
Jess opens her mouth then closes it again. Nick’s been her best friend for almost a hundred years–he avoided her for a lot of the early years and slept through a lot more of them. She knows they’re supposed to be enemies, though, thwarting each other through the ages, fighting at every turn, things like that. Traditionally, it’s always been that way.
“I’m not angry with you,” Aziraphale offers. “Relatively small things like a change of address like this don’t usually make it to me but I merely found it interesting. An angel and a demon, cohabitating. . .it’s modern, isn’t it?”
He has a very strong air of sadness, but he’s so nice. Gabriel used to yell at her for turning in her reports with illustrations done in crayon but she’s a teacher! It’s all she had on hand and what is she gonna do? Not illustrate her paperwork?
“I want to preface this with the fact that Nick is so, so bad at demon stuff,” Jess says, quickly. “I just have to remind him not to be rude sometimes, really. We’re best buds, though. I think he’s really great and his human friends are fun and I’d really love to live with them. I hate living alone. There’s nobody to sing to.”
“. . .anything. . .oh, geez, no!” she says. “Of course not. Who could fall in love with a demon? Not me, that’s for sure, that would be–wrong. And bad. And. . .sir?”
“Yes?” Aziraphale prompts.
“What would happen if I were?” Jess asks, as casually as she can.
“There are rules in the books about fraternizing with demons,” Aziraphale says, smiling, faintly. “Nothing about falling for them, though. If it’s within my power, I’ll be making some changes but, for now, Miss Day, why don’t you follow your heart?”
“. . .seriously?” Jess says, shocked. “You’re not going to say something cutting that will haunt me for years to come? Or make fun of my dress? Or say something cutting about my dress that will haunt me for years to come?”
“I take it you’ve met Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, signing a shiny gold sigil at the bottom of her form and letting it disappear into the air. “Your dress is lovely. I especially love the polka dots and how there are so many of them. Now, off you go.”
