i'm 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones

Everyone's been reassuring him: this is only temporary. Stiles can't decide if he's happy about it or if it's the worst news of his life.

He's wanted to be a superhero since he was old enough to understand what one was. Sure, later in life he begrudged being the metaphorical Robin to Scott's Batman all the time, but he'd take being a sidekick over being a bystander any day. And now, he can actually do it.

So he doesn't have web shooters or a cool costume; that much he'll leave to the professionals. All the same, waking up able to crawl on walls and possessing unnatural athletic and gymnastic talents? After all the Spider-Man comics that Stiles read as a kid, it seems like a crime not to use the powers in and of itself.

Great responsibility and all that.

But he'd be remiss to have all of these powers and not to show Hermione. She knows as well as anyone how much he hates being the literal kind of powerless, and he knows that she'll indulge him if he decides to show her how he can hang on the ceiling now like it's entirely new and unusual around here. He shoots her a text to make sure she's around, and then heads over... probably faster than is proper decorum, but hey. He's excited.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into his pockets to hold back any unnecessary flailing, and waits.

So, Stiles' morning starts kind of weird.

Well, maybe it doesn't start all that weird. He wakes up starfished across Derek's enormous bed, his limbs half tangled in the sheets, half hanging over the edge of the bed, foot actually trailing on the ground. He's talked to Derek before about how he's probably not the best cuddler for this exact reason, but he's working on it and... uh, probably going to get better. Eventually.

The storm last night had also been kind of weird, but the light streaming through the windows and hitting Stiles squarely in the face says that it's all passed, and it's enough to get him to wake him up. Rubbing his eyes on the sleeve of his t-shirt, he yawns, sitting up and letting his back hit the headboard while he reaches over to shake Derek in the shoulder.

Or he would, anyway, if he could get the sheet to stop sticking to his hand.

"The hell?" He'd been pushing the sheet off of his chest, and now it's... well, yeah. Sticking. A few quick shakes don't seem to do anything, and he stops pulling the instant he hears a crisp, tearing sound of fabric, but that's a second too late, the fabric ripping fantastically before it finally comes loose. His eyes go wide before they flick over to Derek to see if he's woken him up, and he's at a loss.

This is no reason to panic. He's not growing fangs or bleeding from the eyes or having a heart attack. He just... seems to be slightly sticky. Or velcro-y.

"Derek?" He hesitates, then reaches out to tap Derek's shoulder with a finger that sticks to him like a post-it before he's able to pull it back. "Hey, Derek. Are you up?"