There were many different ways Cain had been woken up in his life. He had been shaken, kissed, used as an excitable birthday boy's trampoline, beaten and irritated by rays of sunshine in his eyes... a lifetime of awakenings.
But never had he woken up to this feeling. He couldn't even describe it.
Something was touching him, running, ghosting over his skin, tracing every line, never stopping for long, only leaving him for mere seconds every once in a while.
It was soft and cool but also seemingly wet, as it left a trail of water on him.
He dared not open his eyes, fearing that whatever it was might stop.
In that state between sleeping and waking he lay there, enjoying that strange feeling and revelling in it, his curiosity held at bay by the sense of security he had.
So the thing wandered, over his throat, to his chest, circling his pecs, down to his abdomen, never crossing the border his duvet was creating.
He didn't know what it was but it cared, somehow he felt love coming from it, it was there in every movement, in every moment of intimacy.
For years he had known what to expect every single morning. There had been blood, rage, desperation and finally shame. He had dreaded each second, cursed himself and the world for creating such pain and suffering. Yet he hadn't been able to stop it.
He could stop this.
He could open his eyes, move, push away whatever this was, but he didn't want to.
He didn't want to.
He wanted to lie here for all eternity, experiencing this and nothing else.
It was not meant to be that way.
Suddenly it was gone. After caressing his shoulder, it had now gone and not come back.
"Don't stop," he whispered.
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"You're awake," someone said, causing Wyatt to finally open his eyes.
On the edge of his bed he spotted DG, her expression was fearful, unsure what he would do or say.
"What were you doing?" he asked her, pushing himself up into a sitting position.
"Look down," she advised him and he did.
What he saw surprised him.
"It's a tree," he realized. On his chest she had painted a tree in front of a blue sky. Its branches matched his torso's natural lines and they looked a little bit like wings, but that might just have been his perspective.
So the thing touching him had been a paintbrush.
"I'm sorry, I- you were lying there and I couldn't... I couldn't help myself. I just..." she struggled to search for the right words to explain herself, to justify her behaviour.
He reached out to cup her face, and then traced her jaw from the earlobe to the chin.
"Don't apologize."