A/N: What I should be doing? Finishing my master's thesis so I can complete my MA. What I'm actually doing? Writing angsty sap for a long-cancelled children's cartoon. Thanks for the tuition grant, grad school!

This is my first fic for the JN fandom (although I do have a multi-chaptered work I'm currently playing around with), and I admit I haven't seen every episode (not in a damn long time, at least), so feel free to offer up any and all concrit about the characterization, setting, pacing, etc. I get the feeling my muse'll get itchy for the J/C pairing again, and I'd definitely like to get better in any future attempts.

Now without further ado, enjoy the fic!

"Status Quo"

It never changes. Not really.

Seven years of back-and-forth banter, of pointed looks turned secretly longing, of venom-tongued insults designed to erase physical boundaries, nose-to-nose screaming matches that always end with them wrapped around each other… and it's always the same story. Unchanging. Static.

She hates it.

But this is just how it is.

She's watching him from where she sits cross-legged on the sectional sofa he bought for the lab two years back, as he furrows his brow and inputs another long string of computations into his computer. There's a half-finished essay draft scrawled across the pages of the notebook in her lap, but she can't make her pen form anything but distracted lines in the margins, not while she's watching him.

He's turned out to be rather surprisingly handsome as the years have turned, and she can appreciate that… almost as much as she'd hate to admit that she can appreciate it. He'd finally hit a growth spurt a few years back, and even though he wasn't quite as tall as he'd like, he was still about two inches taller than she was, just the right height for the moments in their ostensible study dates where he dipped his head just enough and she tilted hers up and their lips met and she forgot everything she was supposed to know that wasn't him.

Sometimes she idly wonders if he ever appreciates her. She knows she's pretty, on some level anyway — a long-legged athletic blond with brains to match, how could she not be desirable? But then… it's not like most of the guys at school are falling all over themselves to date her. She's too loud, too opinionated, and, well, too smart.

"You're an intimidating specimen, Vortex," he had told her once when she'd been in a demonstrably bad mood after Aaron Madsen had turned down her invitation to the spring fling dance, citing the "too smart" thing (she'd made sure there wasn't the barest hint of the stinging tears she'd shed by the time she'd made her way over to Neutron's lab). She was curled up against his chest, one of his arms warmly around her shoulders, and she'd looked up and pointedly asked why he didn't seem to find her intimidating, especially when he'd been on the receiving end of her anger far more than most for the past seven years.

"Because I know you," he'd said, eyes twinkling with just a hint of mischief. "And you don't scare me one bit, Ms. Vortex."

She'd smirked at him, then suddenly reversed their positions, moving to straddle his hips and pin his hands beside his head against the sofa. "Is that so?" she'd said, just a little too innocently, bringing her lips to hover just above his.

"Yes," he'd said, just a touch too breathlessly, and she grinned before leaning down to kiss him, releasing his hands so she could twine hers into his soft brown hair. He'd wrapped his newly-freed arms around her waist and leaned up into her kiss, just like he'd done in those stolen moments when they were kids, and for just a few moments, everything was perfect.

It was supposed to be one of those nights of revelation, the kind you see in every teen movie ever put to film. She couldn't twist her tongue into the right words to ask him to the dance (he'd kept it fairly preoccupied as their kisses turned more passionate and he pressed her back into the sofa), even though she was sure they both knew that's what she'd meant when she'd told him about Aaron's rejection, when she'd kissed him and he'd kissed her back. And after all those years of back-and-forth, the fights, the cutting remarks, the scarcely-concealed affection beneath the enveloping tension, they'd finally admit what they'd both always known and they'd go to the dance together and they'd be the most attractive couple there and they'd slow dance and share one perfect, dazzling kiss in each other's arms just as the music reached a crescendo and everyone would sigh and everything would be just like it was supposed to be.

But life wasn't a movie.

They didn't say anything as they finally broke apart. He just wordlessly retrieved his calculus notebook and slid to the other end of the sofa, propped his feet up on the coffee table and asked her if she needed help with the correlation coefficient for the third data set.

She ended up going to the dance with Brian Cauley.

He was nice enough, quite handsome, long-jump champion of the track team, kind, respectful, well-spoken. He didn't try to put his hands anywhere he shouldn't and kissed her chastely when the evening ended and he drove her home.

She'd stood on her front porch after he left, staring across the street to the brightly-lit clubhouse behind the Neutrons' house. Grimacing slightly, she'd hitched up her ballroom-length gown and stomped in her precarious slingback heels across the asphalt.

Thumping one manicured hand against the clubhouse door, she shouted for him to let her in. After a long moment, he finally appeared, shoving a pair of goggles onto his sweat-slicked forehead, his cheeks smudged with dirt, the sleeves of his worn T-shirt rolled up onto his shoulders, a question in his dark blue eyes.

She may have been the Retroville High debate champion three years running, but she suddenly couldn't speak.

"Back from the ball, Cinderella?" he'd asked with a rakish grin, leaning against the doorframe. "You've got eleven minutes until midnight. Cutting it kinda close."

"You weren't at the dance," she said.

His smile fell just a fraction, and he quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at her. "Was I supposed to be?"

"Everyone else was."

"'Everyone else' didn't have an experimental endothermic reaction in its end stages."

She frowned a little and dug her heels into the soft ground beneath them.

"You went with Brian, right?" he asked suddenly, and there was a new note of something in his voice that she couldn't quite identify.

"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not really," he shrugged. He hesitated, then said, "But… I mean, he is only enrolled in one AP course."

"He's not stupid, Neutron."

"Never said he was."

"Well, what do you call that crack about his courseload?"

"Just a factual observation, Vortex," he said lightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips at her irritation. "I just thought you had higher standards, that's all."

"He's a good guy, and at least he knows how to treat a lady."

"As opposed to whom?" he asked, smile gone, eyes narrowed.

"Gee, I don't know, someone who can't even bother to find a date for a dance because he's too busy being isolated from the rest of the human species and playing Phantom of the Laboratory?"

He laughed humorlessly. "Come on, we both know you can do better than that. See what happens when you fall for guys of average intellect, Vortex? Your comeback skills are already starting to atrophy, and it's only been one date."

"I haven't 'fallen' for anyone!" she yelled, reaching out and shoving her palms against his chest. "And that 'guy of average intellect' at least notices me!"

"As opposed to whom?" he repeated his words from earlier, grasping her hands in his.

"You damn well know 'whom'!"

"So you think I don't notice you," he said flatly.

"Ha, think? You haven't even said I look—" Her words came to a sudden stop as he leaned down and kissed her, harsh and sudden, squeezing her hands in his. They were covered in dirt, and he smelled faintly of something metallic and chemical, but she didn't care, not even when she found herself enveloped in his embrace, probably getting grease stains all over her beautiful new dress.

A sudden series of beeps interrupted them, and he pulled away from her reluctantly and glanced down at his watch.

"Midnight," he said simply, reaching out to straighten a lock of her blond hair he'd inadvertently mussed. "Better run along, Cinderella. I've got an experiment to check on."

She stood, stock-still, for a long moment, as he observed her curiously. "Cindy?" he asked, reaching out to her.

She flinched back, stone-faced. "You always do this," she whispered, half to herself.

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

"Never mind," she said, shaking her head and straightening her dress. She turned and began to make her way across the yard, the evening dew softening the ground and pulling at her heels, but they remained on her feet, and Prince Not-So-Charming had already disappeared regardless.

Brian had shyly come to sit next to her at lunch the following Monday. It was rather flattering, she had to admit, and something of an ego boost to have this handsome athlete seemingly smitten with her. But then she'd caught Jimmy's eye across the cafeteria, something unreadable in his expression for a fleeting second before he turned back to continue his conversation with Sheen and Carl.

She'd been gentle in turning Brian's invitation to the movies down — he was a nice guy, after all, and it wasn't his fault he wasn't… well. And anyway, a few days later she saw him walking hand-in-hand in the hallways with Stacy Foreman, captain of the girls' tennis team, and he'd waved at her, open and friendly, not the least bit resentful.

It made her angry, and she wasn't sure why. Not until later that day, when she'd taken her familiar seat next to Jimmy in their shared last-period AP Physics class, when he'd failed to even look up and acknowledge her as he sat at his desk, engrossed in finishing the doctoral-level formula the teacher had given him to solve before the bell rang.

"Hey," she'd said, setting down her books on her desk.

He'd given her a vaguely-distracted wave in response, attention still fixated on the paper in front of him. Like she hadn't spent the night in his lab. Again. Like he hadn't offered up another round of not-entirely-joking jabs at Brian's expense, like he hadn't smiled when she'd gotten angry, like she hadn't shoved him up against a nearby lab table and kissed him until they were both breathless and dizzy, like he hadn't slid his fingertips under the hem of her T-shirt and pressed them into the soft skin beneath as he kissed her back.

She settled into her chair, stared ahead at the board as he obliviously continued to work beside her.

Just like always.

"Writer's block?" his voice comes to her in the present, and she realizes she must have been sitting with her unfinished essay in her lap long enough to catch his notice.

"I guess so," she mumbles, flipping her notebook shut and settling her head back against the sofa, shutting her eyes. She hears his footsteps as he crosses the lab, feels the cushions shift as he sits beside her.

"I could probably use a break, too," he says lightly. "It'll take awhile for the computer to process such a complex equation, and I can't proceed until it does." He reaches over to run one hand lightly through her hair, and she can picture the small smile on his lips even behind her closed eyes.

She knows how it'll go from here. The same way it always does. She'll lean into his touch, one of them will move just a little closer, and they'll find some way to anger each other, just enough to ignite the spark of an argument, just enough for an excuse to close the last bit of distance between them and translate passionate anger into his lips against hers, her back pressed up against the sofa cushions, his hands twined into her hair.

And then, they'll suddenly remember who they are, what they are, fierce pride dousing them like ice water as they inevitably pull apart, to opposite sides of the sofa (opposite sides of the lab if it's a particularly bad night, like the time his lips had found their way to the hollow of her throat and his hands had brushed against the swells of her chest and they'd suddenly leapt apart as if burned, and maybe they had been, in a way), and they'll work on their assignments and she'll head home and in school the next day it'll be like nothing ever happened, like they're just acquaintances, classmates, friendly rivals standing toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye at the academic apex.

They've been doing it for seven years.

She's not sure she can do it anymore.

She reaches up to still his fingers as he continues to run them lightly through her hair. "Stop," she says quietly.

He does, pulling his hand away, but he looks at her with a question in his eyes.

"Just… stop," she repeats, moving slightly away from him on the sofa, bringing her knees up to her chest.

"Are… you okay, Cindy?" he asks carefully. He starts to slide over, to bridge the gap between them, but stops with one hand between them on the sofa cushions, fingers twitching nervously.

"I hate this," she says, not looking at him.

"This?"

"This," she repeats, and her eyes are just pained enough for him to understand what she means. He sighs, slumps his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair, and her heart seizes just a bit at the familiar gesture, but the fact that he has so many familiar gestures to her, that she knows his idiosyncrasies, knows the way he moves and the way his eyes alight when he solves a problem, the way he kisses, the way his hair slips through her fingers… and the fact that he's still not hers, never will be makes it so much worse.

"Yeah," he says, laughing just a little, humorlessly. "I can't say I'm particularly fond of it myself."

"We've been doing this forever."

"Eons," he says, turning his head to smile wanly at her. She attempts to return it, but it ends up looking more like a grimace. He sighs, reaches his hand over to rest lightly atop hers. She doesn't entwine her fingers with his, not like she normally would, but she doesn't pull away.

"You don't really hate me," he says. It's not a question.

"Sometimes I do. You're still a giant pain in the ass."

"And you're still shrill and annoying."

"Pedantic know-it-all."

"Haughty princess."

"Brain."

"Brat."

They stop, realizing that they've drawn close together once more.

"We're doing it again," she says softly.

"Yeah," he says, frowning a little and pulling away from her. "Cindy, look… I—I understand if you want to seek out something more substantive. You know I can't…" He falters for a moment, looking down at his hands. "You know I can't afford… any distractions. Not with the current level of my research."

"Your 'research,'" she laughs mirthlessly. "Yeah. That's it. Not the fact that we'd both still rather be caught dead than admit…" The words catch in her throat, and his eyes hold hers for a long moment. "…whatever it is we would… be admitting," she mumbles, dropping her head to her knees.

"If there was... you know, something to admit," he agrees.

"Like… you know."

"Yeah. You know."

An awkward silence suspends between them before she begins to laugh quietly to herself.

"But seriously, can you even imagine?" she says, smiling at him and stretching her legs out in front of her. "I mean… us?"

He laughs, eyes bright as he reaches out to take her hand again, entwining his fingers with hers, and she lets him this time. "It'd provide an excellent basis for a theorem about the nature of impossibilities," he says, tugging on her hand and pulling her to sit beside him. "And/or the current relative temperature of hell."

"And you'd probably have some kind of new weird cosmic abnormality to play with, what with the universe splitting apart at the seams and all," she laughs, curling into his chest and tucking her head beneath his.

"I can see it now: all universal constants in flux, planetary rotations grind to a halt as James Isaac Neutron and Cynthia Aurora Vortex—" He stops suddenly, his arms around her, his chin resting on top of her head.

"Yeah," she says quietly, staring out into the lab. "Never in a million years."

He's quiet for a moment. "I can take us past a million years," he says finally, voice distant. "If you wanted to."

She doesn't answer, just turns her face in against his shirt and attempts to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

He sighs, presses his cheek into her hair. "Cindy," he murmurs.

She still can't speak, especially not with her name on his lips in that soft voice.

"You know, don't you?" he asks, pulling back and tilting her gaze up to meet his. "You have to know."

She stares up at him, willing back the tears pricking at her eyes that she doesn't even really understand. "Yeah," she says. She reaches up with one hand, slowly presses her fingertips to his lips. "Me too," she says, staring at his lips. Until tomorrow, she thinks. Until everything's back to the way it was.

"Me too," she murmurs again, almost too quiet to hear.

His watch beeps, and he glances down at it. Eleven o' clock. School night. Back to the familiar pattern. She'll kiss him, or he'll kiss her, they'll exchange pleasant insults as she gathers her homework, she'll head home, and tomorrow morning in AP Chem they'll sit at separate lab tables, with separate lab partners, separate lives on separate paths with only the barest mocking glance and snide comment between them.

But they've already broken the pattern tonight.

And he's not moving.

"That was your alarm, Neutron," she says, drawing her fingers back from his lips. He's still staring at her, almost a bit unnervingly, and he hasn't made any attempt to move away from her.

"Jimmy," she says, and she uses his given name so infrequently that it's usually enough to get his attention, but nothing seems able to break that stare of his.

Not until he leans down, unprompted by argument, by anger, by any vague expression of hatred they use as a clumsy excuse, and kisses her, very softly. The slope of his cheek is suddenly damp against hers, and she doesn't know if she's crying or he's crying or why either of them would be, but she doesn't want to think about it as she leans into him. He slides his palm up against hers and twines their fingers together as he continues the kiss, and it's the first time it's started so sweetly, no rivalry or tension behind it as a catalyst, and it's communication as much as anything and she knows. She knows.

She wonders idly if they'll ever have a happy ending, but it's such a juvenile thought, ill-befitting of either of them, that she pushes it aside, tilts her head to deepen the kiss, and tries to make sure that he knows what she can't say, either.

When they finally break apart, his forehead resting against hers, eyes closed, she knows he does.

"Stay," he says, very quietly, the word brushing against her lips.

"Does it matter?" she says.

"I don't know," he says, honestly, and squeezes her hand.

"I think I want it to," she murmurs against his lips, and he feels more than hears the words.

And maybe it'll still be just like always. Maybe their fate is to hold fast to the status quo. But as he brings his hands up to cup her face, presses his lips to hers again, maddeningly soft and sweet, for now, it's almost enough.