Abbie didn't know what had happened - there'd been lights, smoke, an explosion-type sound, typical stuff these days - but the fact that she was suddenly a foot taller gave her a pretty good idea of what it had done. "Oh, no," she said, and sure enough, that was not her voice! Too low, too male, too... actually, not all that British-sounding.
"Lieutenant?" her own voice asked cautiously. And Britishly. Guess the accent went with the mind, not the body.
Swallowing past her discomfort, Abbie turned to look at herself. God, was she really that short? "Yeah, it's me," she said with a grimace. "Any idea what just happened?"
Her body - Crane in her body - frowned, and bent down to squint at the floor. "No," he muttered, "though it's possible we've simply stumbled into a trap of some kind."
"A trap?" Abbie looked around. "I don't see anything keeping us here, do you?"
"Well, it is rather..." Crane paused for effect, which sounded just as dumb coming out of Abbie's mouth as his own. "Disorienting, wouldn't you say?"
He had her there. "Well, unless you have any ideas for how to switch us back right this instant, I say we get back to finding this guy, worry about... this," she said, gesturing between them, "later."
Crane considered it for a minute. Nodding, he stood up. "Very well, then." The radio strapped to Abbie's side emitted a burst of static, and a dispatcher started talking, requesting an update from Abbie. Crane eyed the device warily, then held it out to Abbie. "Shall you take care of this, or should I?"
Abbie sighed. This was not going to be easy.
"What ho, pip pop, jolly good show, then!"
"...you must be joking."
"What, you don't think I sound like you?"
"Not even remotely."
"Alright then, let's see you try me."
"(Ahem.) 'Alright then, let's see you try me.'"
"...okay, that was scary."
"Thank you. Unfortunately, while the tone of your voice is simple enough to imitate, the content of your speech is..."
"Aw, twenty-first century slang too complicated for you to pick up?"
"I was referring more to syntax, but your suggestion, however cruelly meant, is not incorrect."
"...yeah, there's no way you're gonna pass for me, I'm calling in sick."
"Wait, I - ow! Shit."
"Lieutenant? Is everything alright?"
"It's fine, I just - shit! - just keep bumping into things."
"Hey, I can hear you not-laughing over there, you better cut that out."
"I'm sorry, you want me to... not, not-laugh?"
"Don't make me hurt you."
"...Lieutenant, could you come in here for a moment? I find I require your assistance."
"With wha - Crane, why did you take off my shirt?"
"As much as I would wish to avoid such an intrusion on your privacy, I simply cannot sleep in your dayclothes. This device in particular - "
"It's called a bra."
" - is incredibly uncomfortable, and I cannot determine how to remove it."
"And here I thought you were supposed to be a married man."
"Even if... bras... existed during my time... Katrina did not wear such things."
"...you know, I don't think I even want to know."
Irving got these headaches, on occasion. Specific occasions. Occasions where he had to deal with specific people and their specific... circumstances.
Privately, he called them Mills-Crane headaches.
"So you're telling me," he said slowly, "that you were acting strangely this week - calling off work and avoiding everyone you know outside of work - because a magic spell made the two of you swap bodies?"
"That's correct, sir."
Irving looked down his nose at Mills, then up it at Crane. "And, what, you two only just got changed back?"
"Uh, no," Crane said in a disarmingly casual way. "We're still in the wrong bodies." Cr - Mills, apparently - gave her partner a look. "Crane's just gotten really good at imitating me this week."
Crane sniffed delicately. "Of course, I prefer to speak like this," he said, in a much more recognizable accent, "but necessity dictated that I be believable as Miss Mills far more than she as me. I had to learn quickly."
"...right." Irving wagged a finger in the air between the two of them. "Get this fixed. Sooner rather than later."
"Of course, Captain."
Irving sighed, walking off. At this rate, he'd be developing Mills-Crane ulcers by the end of the year.