Work Text:
the lights are all out, and you’re laying in bed with a sleepy brendon park. you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet, even though he’s tracing nonsense against your back. you ask him to talk, knowing that hearing his voice is the quickest way to settle your mind.
he huffs. because of course he will, whatever you want, but he doesn’t have anything about his day that he really wants to talk about. the OR was slow.
“okay. come here,” he says, adjusting you so that you fit better against his chest. his palm cradles the back of your head, and you feel his fingers against your skull.
“your occipital,” he says, carefully pressing against the bone. “sagittal suture here… somewhere.”
“very sexy.”
“hush.”
he maps out the parietal bone, your zygomatic process, the slope of your mandible, naming each bone as he goes.
you laugh, somewhere along the way, probably at the temporal process. “you can’t name all of my bones.”
his fingers still. “you asked me to talk,” he says. “i’m talking. and yes, i can.”
you roll your eyes, quieting so that he can continue what he started. his fingers poke at your cervical vertebrae (“atlas,” he tells you at C1). he brushes over your clavicle; it tickles.
“scapula,” he murmurs.
you glance up to see that his eyes are closed. he’s mapping you by touch alone, face relaxed. his hair is freshly washed, missing the gel that normally keeps it out of his face during the work day.
your mind says touch, but the weight of his hand gliding across your skin keeps you still.
“first rib.” a feather-light touch. “true ribs, one through seven.” he pauses against each one. “false ribs. eight to twelve.” his voice rumbles through his chest, against your ear. “floating ribs.”
you’re not sure how far he gets in naming bones; you fall asleep somewhere between iliac crest and greater trochanter.