Author's Notes: So I've been dying to write a Teen Wolf fic, but I've been too afraid to until today. It might be confusing at first, but I swear I'm trying to keep it understandable. *arm flail* Please let me know if you think it's worth continuing or not, thank you. :)
Stiles has no idea what happened. One minute he and Derek are arguing, nothing outside the usual really, and the next he's feeling dizzy and lightheaded and, oh look, the ceiling...
When he finally comes to, the first thing to hit him is the killer headache tearing through his skull. Great, just great... as if his day wasn't going badly enough, let's just tack on a migraine, no biggie. He huffs in aggravation, stumbling to his feet and surprising himself when he manages to stay upright without face planting. Huh. That's a first, he thinks.
He rubs distractedly at his forehead, as if that will magically wish away his throbbing head pain, and starts to head over to the nearest bathroom. He vaguely wonders where Derek is as he passes the alpha's seemingly empty bedroom, silently cursing him for just leaving Stiles passed out on the hardwood floor. What a gentleman... wolf. Wolf-man?
Whatever.
He yanks the door open a little harder then he would normally because, well, why not? It's not like Derek was there for him to release his frustrations on, except whoa... the door not only opens with a bang but comes flying off the hinges, shattering against the wall like he was the flipping Hulk.
Well. That was... unexpected.
He gapes at the now doorless bathroom, unable to register what had just happened. Stiles was not strong by any means. He wouldn't say he was puny, per say, but as far as pulling doors from their frames goes, he simply wasn't the guy to count on.
Eventually, after standing there with his mouth wide open for at least a minute, he decides to chalk it up to how old and in disrepair the Hale house was. That was the only explanation his mind could come up with on short notice. He could re-evaluate this theory later, but first...
He steps into the bathroom on a mission, face set with a look of eager anticipation to relieve himself. He has only himself to blame for draining three bottles of Gatorade at lunch. He's in the process of tugging down the zipper of his jeans when he freezes, catching a glimpse of Derek in his peripheral vision. "Dude, what the hell? There's a little thing called privacy, ever heard of it?"
His mind pretty much quits working the second he stops speaking, unable to decide which to focus on first: the fact that his voice was deeper, sharper, and if he wasn't mistaken had a slight growl to it, or the fact that it wasn't Derek Hale being a creep lurking in the bathroom, but his reflection.
He wants to say he feels his heart rate quicken, but it's more than that. He can hear it. Hell, he can even smell his rising panic as if it was something like pancakes or steaks on the grill, and man, was he hungry.
But food aside, he decides to approach this strange phenomenon like any reasonable person would: by yelling a string of curse words out of his - or rather Derek's, as the case may be - mouth. He's still in the middle of a crazed-induced freak-out, his fingers digging indents in the side of the counter - and oh my god, when did the claws come out? - when the sound of his voice, his real voice, causes him to drop silent.
His head snaps up at an alarming speed, his eyes locking on to himself, and what is going on here? He - or Stiles, he should say, since apparently he was Derek freaking Hale- is leaning against the doorway, looking the part of equally traumatized and freaking the fuck out. Oh good, so it wasn't just him.
"Stiles?"
Bizarre was the best word to summarize this moment. He was talking to himself. What has his life become? Seriously, it's just one weird thing followed by an even weirder one.
He lets out a rush of air, trying to control the dog pile of emotions that was fighting for dominance. He opens his mouth to speak, a jumble of growls and strange guttural noises replacing what he thought were words.
"Stiles, you need to calm dow-" But before his doppelganger can finish, Stiles is jumping out the window. Yeah... not his brightest decision, but he'd be lying if he said he had any amount of control over his body at the present.
Somehow he manages to land on his feet and he's streaking across the yard like nobody's business. He's distantly aware of someone calling his name somewhere, but it's not enough to cause him to slow down or even begin to think logically. All Stiles knows is that right now? He needs to run, needs to escape, to… to... no. He stops that last train of thought before it begins to sink in.
-X-
"Damn it," Derek hisses, staring out the open window and watching his body disappear into the forest. This was bad, very bad. He has no idea how it happened, let alone why, but somehow he and Stiles had swapped bodies. As if that wouldn't be enough for a regular person, one of them just had to be a frickin' werewolf. And an alpha at that.
Fantastic.
He's thinking of everything that can go wrong - Stiles being seen, Stiles getting lost, Stiles getting killed - when a vibration in his pocket causes him to start. He moves his hand to pull out the small device, a pang of annoyance shooting through him when his twitchy hands fumble the phone.
He flips it open on the fourth ring, not even bothering to look at the screen before gritting out "Stiles is in danger, I need you to get here now."
Scott, ever the one to catch on when it's time for 20 questions and when it's time to shut the hell up and get your ass here immediately, responses with: "I thought you quit referring to yourself in third person in the 6th grade. Where are you, anyway? You were supposed to meet me and Allis-"
"Scott. Quit talking. I'm at my- Derek's house. It's an emergency." And with that, he hangs up. Maybe that will encourage him to put a little speed into his arrival, though Derek suspects it's unlikely. The only way to get Scott to do anything promptly was if Allison was involved. Anyone else was out of luck.
Needless to say Derek is mildly impressed when the young werewolf comes loping into view less than 7 minutes after the call, wolfed out and on guard as he approaches 'Stiles'.
"Hey... what's going on? You sounded really weird on the phone. Where's Derek?" Derek has to resist an eye roll, though apparently that doesn't help hide his you're an idiot expression. Scott all but backs away, his posture turning aggressive as he crouches and emits a low growl. "You're not Stiles," he breathes, and even without his werewolf senses Derek can tell Scott is afraid.
"Scott, it's me. Derek. We don't have time for this; we have to find Stiles right now before he mauls someone to death." Derek is already running in the general direction that Stiles had went before he's finished talking, Scott following after in blatant confusion. "I... what? How is this possible? Is Stiles still Stiles or... is he...?"
Derek doesn't bother with a verbal reply, simply meeting his gaze with a slight frown.
"Oh... shit."
"Yeah."
It grows quiet after that except for Derek's heavy footfalls, the two rushing in semi-companionable silence for several minutes before Scott's coherent enough to speak. "I can smell him. He's going too fast for us to catch up at this rate. Derek..." he trails off, knowing that Derek is aware of what he's asking without actually saying it.
Derek slows to a stop, his heart hammering from the exertion, sweat dripping down the side of his forehead and his breath coming out in uneven huffs. He nods once. "Go."