FIC: ST RPS -- Turnabout Intruder in My Pants (1/7ish)
Title: Turnabout Intruder in My Pants (1/7ish)
Author: the_deep_magic
Pairing: Pinto
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Word Count: 3,250
Warnings: crack, overused fandom trope
Disclaimer: so very, very untrue
Summary: If the title didn’t tip you off, highlight for a spoiler… (skip) body swap
A/N: This is dedicated to the ladies of Beanfest 2010 - in alphabetical order - 1_lostone, beedlebarg, ewinfic, halfbreedchild, and nolikereally. They demanded I write this immediately, and I caved like a… spelunker? Sure, let’s go with that.
Monday
Fucking alarm. Bastard fucking alarm.
The worst part is that Chris doesn’t even remember setting the goddamn bastard fucking alarm. And he must be hung over to a truly disproportionate degree, because that shitty goddamn bastard fucking alarm sounds shriller than anything he’s ever heard before in his life.
Chris lurches toward the bathroom, his center of gravity somehow uprooted and stuck back in the wrong place. And he probably should notice that the bathroom he’s stumbling toward is on the left side of the bed instead of the right, but he’s too busy trying to remember how much he’d had to drink the night before.
Not enough to be this fucked up, he decides as he makes it to the bathroom, not even bothering to glance in the mirror. There are a hundred little things that should tip him off along the way, but he doesn’t have his glasses and everything’s a total blur before that first cup of coffee anyway. But the facts that the soap isn’t where it should be and the sink’s the wrong color and everything from his ears down just feels a little bit off doesn’t really coalesce into panic until he goes to pee.
That’s about the time he looks down and it suddenly hits him: that is NOT my dick.
He yanks his hand back like it’s been burned and spins around to face the mirror, his reflection a little blurry but recognizable.
Of course. Who else would it be?
“You fucker,” he tells Zach’s face.
It takes him far less time to fumble around for the thick, black-framed glasses than it does for him to figure out Zach’s fucking iPhone. When he finally manages to dial, it rings a dozen times and goes to voicemail before Chris remembers the time difference. Somewhere in LA, he’s still sleeping. Or his body is, at any rate. He hangs up and calls again. Then again.
When somebody finally picks up, Chris hears, “…the fuck, Chris? This says I’m calling myself. Is this your phone? How the hell do I have your phone?” In Chris’ fucking voice.
“Zach.”
“Yeah.”
“Zach.”
“What?”
“Look at your hand.”
“What?”
“Look at it.”
“I don’t know what you-”
A series of thuds as the phone first hits the bed, then slides down the covers to smack something (the nightstand?) before crashing to the floor. Cursing. The loud rustling of sheets. Footsteps. Louder cursing. More footsteps. Fumbling with the phone.
“What the sweet ever-loving fuck, Christopher?”
Chris groans. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re in my fucking body talking with my fucking voice!”
“I am in your fucking body talking in your fucking voice!” Zach shrieks, and fuck, does Chris’ voice really sound like that when he’s mad?
“So this is actually a thing that’s happening? It’s real?”
“Maybe it’s a dream. Are you dreaming?”
“I don’t think so. Would I know if I was?”
“Probably not.”
“It doesn’t feel like a dream. What the fuck is going on?” Chris moans
“I don’t know. What were you doing last night?”
“I went out with some friends, we had a few drinks.”
“Anybody ask you if you want to take the red pill or the blue pill?”
“What? No! You know I’m not into… No. Why, what were you doing?”
“I did both parts of the show yesterday and the day before, so I just went home and crashed.”
Chris makes a strangled noise and leaps to his feet. “Oh my fuck, the show. Zach, do I have to-”
“Not today. Damn it, this happens on my one day off a week-”
“Which is a good thing!” Chris yelps. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
“I don’t know! Why would I know?”
“Well I sure as hell don’t know!” Chris groans, swaying forward, suddenly aware of a sickening light-headedness. “I feel like I’m going to pass out.”
“Shit, I don’t think I ate anything last night when I got home. You’d better go to the kitchen; I think I have some granola bars in the cabinet by the fridge.”
Chris stumbles through the apartment, feeling every bit as clumsy as anyone who was unceremoniously ripped out of his own body and stuck in this ridiculously lanky thing would feel. “What the hell, Zach. How am I supposed to move around like this? I feel like Stretch Armstrong in a taffy puller.”
“Hey, don’t go insulting my body. It’s a finely tuned instrument.”
“So is a nose harp.”
Zach huffs. Loudly. “Hey, I’m not exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of lurching around on your chicken legs, either.”
But Chris is already rooting through the granola bar cabinet. Yes, an entire cabinet devoted to granola bars, and not a single one of them looks even the least bit appealing. “Flax seed and walnut? Seriously? Don’t you have anything with chocolate chips?”
Again with the huffing. “You might as well eat a Snickers bar. No, Chris, I have real food.”
“Snickers are real food,” Chris counters, settling on a bar that at least says “honey” on the wrapper and tearing into it.
“Remember to chew,” Zach snaps, and he’s got that bitchy tone; Chris can hear it, even in his own voice.
“Don’t be like that. I’m just as freaked out as you are,” Chris says between bites, sinking down into one of Zach’s modern-looking but distinctly uncomfortable kitchen chairs. His head starts to clear and he glances around - the apartment looks much the same as it did when he was here in May. In his own damn body.
“I’m sorry,” Zach sighs. “Shit.” For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of Chris chewing, though he can practically hear the gears whirring in Zach’s head from three thousand miles away. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even imagine what caused this. Well, I can, but the least insane options seem to involve aliens or government mind control rays.”
“I was thinking voodoo. Have you pissed off any witch doctors lately?”
“Nope. Ugulu and I patched things up last week. How about you? Gotten any weird fortune cookie fortunes? Touched any ancient Egyptian artifacts? Pulled any suspicious-looking levers marked ‘swap bodies with Chris?’”
“No, no, and no, you moron,” Zach says, but it’s affectionate. “Okay, so, um, if we don’t know what caused it, how are we going to fix it?”
“No clue. Should we… I don’t know, go to the hospital or something?”
“And say what? That we may have switched bodies with someone on the other side of the country?”
“Shit. I guess we at least need to try and get together.”
“I was thinking that, too. But I have - well, I guess you have a full run of shows this week, and-”
“Zach, I can’t do the show!” Chris gasps, flecks of granola flying from his lips. “Are you crazy? I’ve read it, like, twice, but I can’t just-”
“Don’t panic, I’m not asking you to. But, fuck, if this hasn’t sorted itself out by tomorrow…”
“You have an understudy, right?”
“Yeah,” Zach says, and Chris would swear that it’s almost hesitant.
“Great, what’s his number? Or do I call the director?”
“Well…”
“Well what?”
“It’s just… it’s my part. I mean, I know Eric does a great job and all, but-”
“Oh my god, Zach, I know it pains you to jeopardize your artistic integrity, but either I call the understudy or you’re going to have to deal with a whole bunch of theatre critics wondering why Zachary Quinto suddenly got a lobotomy.”
“Fine,” Zach grunts. “Call Michael Greif. His number’s in my phone.”
“Okay, great. So I’ll fly out as soon as I can.”
“No!” Zach yelps. “I can’t risk be seen ditching the play to run back to LA for no apparent reason. You’re going to have to pretend to be sick. Like, really sick. And you can’t go anywhere.”
“Because I was totally planning on taking your body out for a joyride around town. Give me some credit, here, Zach. So you’re going to fly to New York?”
“That seems like our best bet. Do you have anything important this week?”
“No, you can- Oh, wait. Shit, I have a meeting about the Jack Ryan thing on Wednesday.”
“Can you postpone it?”
“No, I already had to put it off three times because of extra filming for This Means War. Shit shit shit.”
Zach, damn it all to hell, actually sounds a little excited. “Ooh, so I get to play Chris Pine in the role of Actor Man.”
“Oh god, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing bad,” Zach says, and then stops. Chris waits for it. “I just might happen to mention that the screenwriters might want to break with Tom Clancy’s tradition and actually give Jack Ryan some kind of personality.”
It’s a rant he’s heard from Zach more than once since Chris had been tapped for the part. “Not funny, Zach.”
“I’m not joking. Seriously, Chris, for the sake of your career, somebody needs to say it. I’ll say it nicely, I promise.”
“You will say nothing, or… or…”
“Or what?”
It comes to him in a brilliant flash of light. “Or I’ll make you fat.”
That shuts Zach up. “You wouldn’t.”
“I will. So help me god, I will roam the streets of New York eating corndog after delicious, greasy corndog until you balloon up like a whale. And I will enjoy it.”
“Don’t you fucking-”
“Hey, your stomach’s rumbling. What’s that, Zach’s stomach? You say you’re really sick of granola bars? And all you long for is the savory tang of a delicious, preservative-laden, batter-dipped all-beef frank? On a stick?”
“Fine!” Zach groans. “You win. I’ll keep my mouth shut and smile and nod like a good little boy.”
“Thank you,” Chris says through gritted teeth, “for not defending your indie cred at the expense of my fucking career.”
“As long as you don’t destroy ten years worth of meticulously healthy living in a moment of childish spite.”
Chris seethes quietly, imagining reaching through the phone line and slapping Zach. There’s gotta be an app for that. But he’d only succeed in slapping his own face, which is just all kinds of fucked up, and how fast do you have to be breathing before it counts as hyperventilating, anyway?
“Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Okay,” Zach says, like he’s wrestling with his brain. Chris’ brain? Fuuuuuuck. “Okay. The plan: I will buy a plane ticket to New York. You will call in sick. We will both minimize our contact with other people until we can figure this out.”
“I guess that sounds… like the least horrifying option.”
Zach sighs. “Could be worse. You could’ve swapped bodies with… I don’t know. John?”
“Actually, that would be kind of awesome.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It would.”
&&&
“And I’m not even really supposed to be whispering,” Chris gurgles into the phone. “The doctor was very clear - no talking at all.”
He’s hoping that some lemon juice, a lot of forced coughing, and those five cigarettes he found in Zach’s junk drawer (meticulously healthy living, my ass) have done enough of a number on his - or rather, Zach’s - voice, to the point where this director guy isn’t going to demand an actual doctor’s note before he’ll let the understudy take over.
“And did this doctor say how long your voice is going to be gone?” He says “doctor” with the same inflection a normal person might use to say “child molester.”
“Uh… no telling,” Chris says quickly. “Could be tomorrow, could be a week.” Could be for-fucking-ever, the cynical little voice in the back of his head says, but he wisely tells it to fuck off.
“I’m not happy about this, Zach.”
Chris bristles, getting into the part. “Neither am I! You think I want to give up Louis, even for a day? You think-” He cuts himself off with what he hopes is a convincingly hacking, painful-sounding coughing fit.
“Alright, alright. Don’t strain your voice any more than you have to, Jesus. Take a steam bath, gargle salt water, whatever. Just call me the second you can talk again.”
“Will do.” Would Zach ever say “will do”? It sounds weird in his voice, but Michael just sort of grunts goodbye and hangs up without another word.
Chris sighs and puts the phone down. He has a feeling that he’s going to be hearing from that guy at least once a day, voice or no voice. Standing up, he wanders back toward Zach’s bedroom, where the bedclothes are still in a tangled heap from kicking them off this morning. Matter of fact, he’s still in boxers and an old Steelers t-shirt - he didn’t even bother changing after the nap that he’d held a vain hope would fix everything, after the second time he woke up in Zach’s body.
Zach’s body. Chris puts his arms over his head and stretches, immediately surprised at how much better he feels. He supposes he’s starting to get used to it, but it’s still not quite right. As long as he’s looking straight ahead, he’s okay, but the second he gets a glimpse of any part of Zach’s body, his eyes dart toward the unfamiliar sight like a tongue to a sore tooth. They’re nearly the same height, not a huge weight difference either, but the distribution is all wrong. Chris wasn’t lying about feeling gangly - Zach is all arms and legs, a little leaner on top but nicely toned all over, the yoga freak.
And the hair, god. That’s what catches Chris’ eyes the most, the thick, dark hair sprouting from his forearms, calves, even his fingers and toes. Chris has a decently masculine smattering of hair on his own forearms, but Zach has a fucking pelt running all the way down to his wrists. Chris can’t stop looking at it, playing with it; he’d been tugging lightly on it the whole time he was on the phone. The fur tapers out to nothing above his elbows, which is sort of odd, but then there are small tufts of chest hair trying to poke their way above the stretched-out collar of the t-shirt.
Chris has been avoiding mirrors all day because it’s just too goddamn weird, seeing somebody else looking back at him. But he supposes he’d better just face it - maybe if he stares long enough, something will start to make sense. It’s as good of a plan as he’s thought of yet, which is only a little depressing. He decides to just plunge in, going to the closet and closing the door to gaze into the full-length mirror mounted on it.
The Zach in the mirror stares back at him, his face reflecting the shock Chris feels. That should in no way be a surprise, but everything’s sort of a surprise, even down to the fact that when Chris raises his hand, it’s Zach’s hand that lifts in the reflection. He reaches up and touches Zach’s face - the stubble there is rough, much coarser than Chris’ own. It feels good to rub, satisfying against his fingertips, and it takes him a few moments to realize that he’s just standing there, essentially molesting Zach’s chin. He pulls his hand away immediately, slightly embarrassed. Instead, he tugs a hand through Zach’s hair, shorter than it was in May and now standing straight up in wonky bunches all over his head.
He drops his hands and stares at himself full-on. Something’s off, and after a moment, Chris realizes that it’s his posture. Zach stands straighter than this, his head held a little differently, and no sooner does Chris think it than Zach’s body seems to straighten up on its own. Muscle memory, Chris thinks. Possibly the reason he was able to stumble to the bathroom without running into the wall or even realizing that anything was amiss at first. It’s Zach’s routine, conditioned into his body. Chris tilts his head, watching Zach’s face turn along with it, and wonders what else, exactly, this body knows.
It’s far past time to get dressed, anyway, so Chris reaches down and tugs the hem of the t-shirt over his head and tosses it away. He doesn’t mean to look at himself in the mirror again, not really, but he can’t help it. Zach’s never been shy about his body, so it’s not like the view is entirely new to Chris, but he’s never allowed himself this close a look.
Without thinking, he rubs a hand across his belly, a little shocked to feel both the hair and the firmness of the muscle. Zach’s abs are closer to the surface - he doesn’t have that little pooch that, despite hours and hours of crunches, Chris just can’t get rid of. Zach had just laughed at him, told him he was imagining things, but Chris knows it was mostly good lighting and a fair amount of sucking in his gut that made him look good on camera.
But enough of that train of thought. Chris pulls open the closet door, flips on the light, and winces hard at what he sees. Stripes, everywhere. Jeans that look terrifyingly small. Hat after hat after hat. After a bit of digging, he finds that old, battered pair of jeans he remembers Zach wearing when they were just hanging out at his house, and pairs it with that flannel shirt he bought Zach as a joke one time. Frankly, he’s a bit surprised Zach still has it.
Luckily, Zach’s got more food around than just granola bars, so Chris doesn’t have to worry about going out to get more. He heats up the leftovers of a chicken breast with some kind of lemony sauce and boots up Zach’s computer. The internet has to have some answers.
He really has no idea where to begin, so he just types bodyswap into Google, braces himself, and hits enter.
&&&
Five hours later, Chris has read numerous Wikipedia entries, watched episodes of both the Original Series and Voyager, and skimmed about a thousand fanfics for various science fiction shows and movies (including some very explicit Kirk/Spock, which is kind of an amusing thought, but what the shit is with that double-ridged cock?) but is absolutely no closer to either a cause or a solution than he was before. He would probably have gleaned more hard scientific fact from watching Freaky Friday.
Looking up from the computer, Chris is surprised to find that the living room is nearly dark. He hadn’t realized it was almost nightfall. He sets the laptop aside to get up and flip on lights in the living room and kitchen. He’s just starting back to the computer when he’s hit by a sudden feeling of entrapment. It makes no sense - he’s been in this apartment for less than a day - but all of a sudden he feels like he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t get out for at least a few minutes.
It’s cold outside, and Chris is under strict orders not to be recognized, so he bundles up in the chunkiest layers of clothing he can find. He remembers Zach talking about a café around the corner; some coffee would be perfect right now. That’s when it hits him that Lamill is now 3,000 miles away, and Zach’s front door promptly receives a swift kick and the swearing-out of its quiet, rectangular life.