A/N: Presented without much comment other than: Jughead and Betty haven't dated yet in this, and they're in senior year.
Catch you on the flip side.
Instead of late morning light being his wake up call, Jughead was woken by the horrendous chirp of an alarm clock going off, and, really, that should have been the first sign that something was wrong.
He flung his hand out from under the covers in the direction of his side table—seriously, when had he set that alarm, and why had he conspired to torture himself so completely on a Sunday morning—but instead of his fingers hitting the cheap, pressed particle board he was familiar with, he just hit more bed. He stilled for a second before feeling around more, sheets too soft under his palm, mattress too padded, and, suddenly, blanket too heavy and warm to be his.
What the fuck?
He popped one eye open and froze.
Many things were jarringly wrong with what he could make out from just one hazy second of observation.
The room was pink. There was blonde hair tangled under his head and peeking into his peripheral vision. The air in the room was much warmer than that of the trailer. The smell of bacon was faint but certainly there, and that was unheard of in the Jones trailer, especially before—he rolled closer to the edge of the not-so-strange bed and grabbed for the still-shrieking phone on the nightstand—7:30am.
Early morning light, watery at best, was edging in through the window, and he didn't have to look around much to know exactly where he was.
Betty Cooper's room.
Frantically, Jughead thought back to last night. Just as every night before, he hadn't touched any alcohol; what else could have caused him to end up in his friend's bed with no recollection of how he got there?
How had he gotten here? Betty was going to kill him.
Looking around, he spotted no sign of her and paused yet again. He had seen blonde hair while still snuggled up in bed, so where had she gone so silently that he hadn't noticed?
He took a deep, slow breath in, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair in confusion. That, however, didn't help, because his hair was suddenly a lot longer than he remembered, and blonde. Tangled and panicked, he tried to pull free but ended up yelping when he caught his fingers in a snag.
What the fuck?
Also his hands were small and strange, and his nails were painted a pale petal pink.
What the fuck?
Jughead pressed his palms against his heaving chest and pounding heart, only to fling them away again when he ended up cupping a lot more flesh than expected. He had to take a moment to look up at the ceiling, to talk himself down from a panic attack.
You don't have boobs, Jughead, you idiot. This has to be a dream. You don't have boobs, blonde hair, or sleep in a pink room. That's Betty—that's all Betty's territory. Calm down.
When his dropped his gaze again, he looked down and really tried to keep his cool. For all his reasoning, he was staring down at a body that was not Jughead-shaped, and the urge to scream bloody murder was welling up in his throat so fast that he might split his vocal cords on the next exhale.
This time, he did not try to press his hand to his chest to feel the erratic and frankly concerning pounding of his heart, lest he unintentionally molest himself—Betty?—again. Instead, he threw the plush comforter off and dashed in the direction of the bathroom Betty shared with her older sister, who was, thankfully, away at college and therefore not present to see her little sister freak out in a way he was sure would come off as crazy.
Jughead slid into the bathroom and fumbled against the wall for where he knew the light switch was, but instead of where he usually hit to flip it on, he had to reach up higher. A moment later, he confirmed why.
There he was in the mirror. Betty Cooper's eyes were staring back him, jaw dropped open and eyes forced so wide that he might actually be able to see the whole of her goddamn eyeballs. The lightswitch hadn't moved, of course, but now that he was suddenly in Betty's body—what the actual fucking fuck—the switch was about eight inches higher, in comparison to his apparent height.
He was still Jughead, but he definitely didn't look like Jughead anymore.
Which meant—
Where was Betty?
His money was on her being trapped in his body on the Southside, and he balked even harder before scrambling back out of the bathroom and snatching up the sleek phone with the baby blue cover, hoping that she had fingerprint ID activated because he did not have the ability to guess her password, especially not in this state of panic.
Thankfully, the lock screen melted away and he headed straight for the text messages to find his own name. They had been texting last night about an English paper due on Thursday, and so he knew he was in there somewhere.
He did not find his name, but he knew at first glance which text thread was his, and it made him pause for the first time since realizing something was deeply, horribly wrong.
She didn't have him as 'Jughead Jones' in her contacts. Not even 'Jug' or 'Juggie', either of which wouldn't have surprised him at all.
His first name was burger, and his last name was made up of a string of emojis in some sort of colour order, which surprised him not one bit considering who the phone belonged to. In place of 'Jones', there was: pizza, hotdog, crown, motorcycle, magnifying glass, flashlight, film projector, headphones, and laptop emojis.
He grinned down at the screen and felt a flush bloom under his skin faster than it usually did. He basked in the feeling while he navigated from the text thread through to where he could jab the call button, at which point his anxiety skyrocketed again.
His own phone rang and rang with no answer and he knew from extremely personal experience that it would be on Do Not Disturb mode. Luckily for him, he also knew that Betty was coded under Favourites, and if she called him twice within five minutes, his phone would actually ring. She was the only one who had made the Favourites list in his own phone.
So he hung up, counted to 30, and hit the call button again. This time, after the fourth ring, the call was answered. Through the earpiece, all he could hear was shuffling and the familiar squeak of his single bed before an alarmed cry and a loud thump.
"Betty?" he spoke into the phone, hesitant. "Betty, are you there? Are you okay?" His voice was high pitched and strange.
"Motherfucker," came a distinct moan from the other end, still not very close to the phone by the sounds of it, but it was extremely odd to hear his own voice on the other end of the phone. The effect was unsettling, to say the least.
"Betty?" he called louder, hoping to catch her attention from wherever she had dropped his phone, but not loud enough to tip her mother off that 'Betty' had woken up.
"Holy fuck, holy—" Another round of scratchy, muffled fumbling came through the line and he grimaced. "Phone, phone, phone—there you are." More indiscernible shuffling, and then his own voice came in more sharply.
"Thank god, you're okay—" he breathed in Betty's equally familiar voice.
"Please don't take too much offense to this, Jug, but why in the heck"—he almost laughed at the fact that she had just sworn so profusely, but had immediately reverted back to Cooper Approved swears, and in his voice, no less—"am I in your room, mostly naked, in a body that is highly reminiscent of yours, and not mine?"
If he wasn't in the same boat as her, he might have laughed at the escalating tone of hysterics in her voice, but…
"I have no idea, I swear, but I'm in your room, in your body, and I'm freaking the fuck out."
"What the—what the fudge is going on?" she hissed menacingly.
"I have no idea."
"Fucking Riverdale," she mumbled, and he snorted.
"That sounds more like me, yeah." He laughed, pressing his free palm to his thigh—Betty's thigh.
"Why do I have a… Oh my god."
Jughead waited a few moments for her to continue, but she didn't supply any more information. Everything in the background went silent and he pressed the phone more tightly to his ear.
"Why do you have a what?"
"I…"
"...Betty?"
The silence stretched and sagged between them, and Jughead ran through what she might be talking about. FP was away on a long trucking haul, content that Jughead could take care sufficient care of himself, now a senior at Riverdale High, and much more well supplied with pocket money, and food in the fridge with his dad's regular job. So at least his dad wouldn't walk in on this. What else could it—
"Oh no," he moaned. "Oh no, Betty, I'm sorry—"
"It's not your fault, Juggie, it's—this is really an out-of-body experience. Literally. What the fuck is going on?"
If he thought he felt a mild flush before, he was sure if he looked in the mirror in the bathroom again, he would find a cherry red version of Betty looking back at him. Mortification both stopped his heart and forced it into overdrive, which mostly just made him feel as if his chest was about to balloon out and splatter his insides all over his room; or, Betty's insides, and all over Betty's room.
He hadn't even realized this would be a worst nightmare sort of thing, but if she was staring down at the tent he found in his pants just about every morning, then it had officially crossed into nightmare territory.
"Just… Just don't touch it. It'll go away. Did I at least wear pajama pants to bed? Please tell me I did. Betty, please tell me my body is at least partially clothed right now."
There was a few more beats of silence in which his stomach plummeted even further, before he heard his voice again, but with the unmistakable cadence and whimper of Betty Cooper about to cry. "J-Jug…"
"Oh," he backtracked. "Oh, Betty, don't cry. It's okay. It's really okay. I'm… I'm gonna come over. I'm coming over. Don't leave the trailer, okay?" Some sniffles, but no full-on wails, so he kept going. "Dad isn't home, so you're alone. It's probably cold, and I'm sorry about that, too, but you know my hoodies are in the middle drawer of the dresser, and my socks are in the top drawer. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"No!" she shouted.
"What?"
"Mom will wonder why you're leaving the house so early in the morning, in your—my—jammies. Which means you have to change! Which means—"
"Right," Jughead sunk deeper into her mattress, the edge of it cutting into his the back of his thigh. "I won't look. I promise, Betty, I'll keep my eyes closed. I'll change in the dark. It's not a big deal." The sharp memory of accidentally feeling up her chest before he had realized what sort of insane body swap had happened came back to him, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to forget. That was a dangerous thing to have a memory of, considering the extremely delicate position he was in, and how very easy it would be to take a peek under her clothes without her knowledge.
Not that he would ever do that, but he couldn't deny the fact that he had wondered for long enough what exactly was under her collared shirt collection.
"Okay," came her response, small and barely there.
"Betty, do you trust me?" he asked, floundering for a way to make her feel better in such a crazy situation.
"Yes," she whispered.
"I'm telling you I will not look or touch. It's your body, I'm just… in it, for now. Urgh, not like that, my god, I just keep making this worse," he sighed, hanging his head.
To his surprise, she gave a small hiccup, one that sounded like it fell somewhere between a laugh and the welling tears he knew are still clinging to her lashline.
"It's okay, Juggie. I know what you meant."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Okay."
It sounded better the second time around.
.
.
.
Jughead kept his promise. He rifled through her drawers of clothing, more careful and less haphazard then he would be with his own belongings, to find some workout gear he'd seen her wear on occasion. Not only was it easier to pick a top and a bottom, but athletic gear had the added bonus of not requiring he figured out how to put a bra on, one with underwire and and a two-pronged clasp; he'd taken one look in her underwear drawer and shut it again, letting out a slow breath.
Stacking his choices on the bathroom counter, he shut the door to almost closed, leaving about half an inch open to let a tiny bit of morning light in so that it wasn't completely pitch black. He still couldn't see much, and as long as he didn't intentionally try to make out any detail of the curves and contours of her body, he wouldn't be seeing anything.
But before he could strip and re-dress, he realized something with an immediate sense of urgency. He had to pee. Sighing, he dropped her pajama pants and turned to sit on the toilet, a strange concept.
The only solution he could see was to use enough toilet paper to wipe that he didn't touch anything he wasn't supposed to, but not so much that he clogged the toilet when he flushed after. He successfully pulled it off, letting out a breath when the water emptied completely and the wad of paper didn't get stuck in the bend of the toilet.
After that, it was a relatively simple process to pull a sports bra over his head and follow it with a shirt, a blindly selected pair of underwear, and some hopefully warmer-than-they-looked leggings. When he flicked the light on, Jughead balked at her hair. He had no idea what to do with her hair. Maybe she had a toque around somewhere. If he was going to try and pass off leaving the house as going for a run in the cold October morning, a warm hat wouldn't look too out of place. He hoped.
Jughead rummaged around for a clean pair of socks, and looked through Betty's closet for winter hat. Nothing to be found.
Biting his lip, he opened up their text thread again and sent her a message.
If I were your toque or another hat suitable for winter jogging, where would I live?
Her answer came a moment later.
You would live in the downstairs closet by the door, on the top shelf, in the basket on the right hand side. You would also be a really flattering shade of lavender.
Jughead snorted, but stored the info away anyhow.
Shoes would be in the same place; how many times had he heard Alice Cooper remind her daughter to put her shoes away when they were children?
Another text lit up the phone screen.
Shoes are downstairs, blue and gray runners are mine. Jacket is the dark purpley coloured one. Keys are in the front pocket of my backpack, the little pocket on the left. In my wallet, can you find a twenty dollar bill and bring that, too? Don't forget my phone, please.
Marvelling at how bizarre this whole thing was, Jughead looked around the room again. After he had gathered what he needed from her bag, resolutely ignoring the stash of tampons in the pocket that held her wallet, he threw her blankets back over her mattress and tried to straighten them out, though he was pretty sure he did a terrible job of it.
Taking a deep breath, he eased Betty's bedroom door open and threw caution to the wind.
He made it to within three steps of the front hall closet before Alice called out.
"Betty? Is that you?"
Shit.
"Yeah, mom." He grimaced at the words. Sound like Betty, his brain supplied.
"I made breakfast!" she announced, her voice drawing closer. Music to his ears any other time.
"I'm just going to go for a run first," he said, hoping against hope that she would stop walking toward him.
"Oh, good." Alice appeared around a corner and Jughead swallowed. "You know running will help with your endurance training. I'm glad you're going."
Jughead tried not to frown. Instead he nodded, and turned back to the closet, opening it and trying to locate everything as if he was, in fact, someone who had lived in the Cooper house for his whole life.
"Which route are you going to take?" Alice prompted, still standing behind him.
"Oh, uhm," he started. "I don't know yet. I'll decide when I get out there, I guess."
"Make sure you take your phone, then. And be careful of ice."
"I will."
By the time he shut the front door behind himself, trying to give Alice a reassuring Betty-esque smile, he was sweating.
.
.
.
Making his way over to the Southside would have been infinitely quicker if he'd had his motorcycle under him, but seeing as it was currently parked behind the trailer, he was out of luck.
Jughead shivered and burrowed his hands deeper into Betty's jacket pockets, and broke into a slow jog. He was dressed for it, and it was chilly out.
Another bizarre thing happened as he made his way through the Northside; he sped up into an actual run, and he didn't get winded. This must be what it felt like to be an active person, he mused. He was never going to be an athlete, it just wasn't his aesthetic, but it was kind of nice.
Soon enough, he rounded on the trailer park and dashed through the back ways to the Jones lot. Before he even reached the top of the stairs, the front door was yanked open, and there he was standing in the doorway. Or, there she was.
Bizarre.
Betty stood on the lip of the door jam, staring at him with wonder.
"You look like me."
"I know, that's kind of why we're doing this right now." He grinned.
"No, I mean you dressed like me."
"Kind of hard not to when all I have at my disposal is your closet. Dressing like you is my only option, Betts."
"No, I mean—you coordinated!" she laughed, gesturing to the athletic gear he'd pulled on.
"Oh, yeah. I figured your mom would have less questions if I said I—you—were going for a run."
"You're a smart cookie, Jughead Jones. I shouldn't have been so worried."
"Come on, let's figure this out," he said, nodding in the direction of the trailer's kitchen behind her.
Once they were both inside, Jughead moved to crank the heat before turning to look at himself. Being Betty's height was really throwing him off this morning, and staring up at himself, so far up, was another unsettling thing to add to the growing list.
"So…" he trailed off.
"So… Any ideas on what the heck happened?" Betty picked up, sweeping one of his arms in the general direction of everything.
"Not at all. I can't even…" he trailed off, drifting closer to her and leaning against the kitchen counter at her side. "I literally have no explanation. You didn't do some weird drugs last night, perchance, did you?"
Betty laughed, the timbre of his own voice sounded again different, but still too eerily similar.
"No. So what do we do?"
They looked at each other silently. Jughead watched his Adam's apple bob in his throat as Betty looked down at him intently.
"What?" he prompted.
"Well…" she trailed off, unsure.
"I will take any suggestion right now because this morning has been a whole load of effed up, and I can't make any sense of it. If you've got an idea, Betts, let's try it. Unless you want to stay in my highly male body for the rest of time."
They both flushed darkly, remembering the conversation they'd had on the phone first thing that morning, and Jughead shook his head.
"Well…" she started again. "Kiss me."
As quickly as all the heat in his cheeks had come, he felt it all drain away. He was pretty sure his heart stopped in her chest.
"What?"
"Kiss me," she repeated, looking down at him again and tilting his head in such a Betty way that he could almost see her in there, behind his eyes. "This is some really Freaky Friday shit, Jug, even though that was a mom and daughter. They didn't have to kiss; they had to learn to understand each other better, and be nicer. But, we already know each other really well, and I know I'm the person you're nicest to by miles so…"
Finally, his heart started beating again, and he took another breath.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm just as lost as you are with this. Do you have any other suggestions? Because I really hope we can get this solved by the time school starts tomorrow. Or you're gonna be doing high kicks and squat lunges at Vixen practice for me."
"Oh my god, kiss me."
"So romantic," she grinned, giving him a soft smile before leaning down and pressing her lips to his. His eyes slid shut, and he leaned up to press back. Trying not to think of how odd everything was, he shuffled closer to his own body, and pulled Betty down a bit more by the front of his hoodie.
At first, they didn't do much more than hold their lips together, but after a few beats, Betty shifted, pulling him in a little more tenderly and slanting her mouth over his again. He let go of his own clothing and reached up a little more, and Betty's hands found their way to his jaw. She pressed her fingertips to the underside, tilting his head up just a fraction more before sighing into it softly.
Jughead didn't open his eyes as the kiss ended, and they both kept a hold on the other, tilting their foreheads to touch gently.
"Do you think it worked?" she whispered, the quiet of her voice not really indicating either way if she had her own vocal chords again.
He felt her take another breath in, sharply this time.
When he opened his eyes, he was back at a much more familiar height, looking down on her again, and her face broke into a wide grin.
"Fucking Riverdale," he mumbled.
"Fucking Riverdale," she echoed.
They didn't move.
"Do you think," Betty started, her voice back to its regular cadence. "If we kissed again, I mean, do you think it would happen again?"
Jughead tried to stifle his enthusiasm at the thought of her leaning up into him this time, of him pulling her in closer at the waist, to feel her body how he was meant to feel it and not from some bizarre body swap.
"I mean, I don't really want to swap again, but there's only one way to find out."
A/N: Look, I don't explain why this happened (like, a satisfactory reason or theory or what have you) because I don't know. I just realized I had never read a body swap fic for Riverdale fanfiction and needed to correct that immediately (though I did not look to see if such a fic already existed, so if you know of any, leave them in a comment below along with a review because that's just a nice thing to do).
Thanks, loves, and have a safe Halloween.