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The transit crossing to Arrakis is inevitably uneventful. Even Harkonnens would not be so foolish as to risk defying the Guild and their ever-essential Navigators—and so this is the one portion of the journey in which the cluster of Atreides frigates and transports are completely safe. So many ships, carrying nearly an entire dynasty, and they take up the smallest corner of the Guild's massive Heighliner.
The duration of the trip, only a few short days, grates on Gurney's nerves just the same.
There is no rational reason for him to do his own rounds of the Duke's primary vessel. Filled as the ship is with Leto's top security and best soldiers—closed off without entrance or egress, even amid the other ships being carried from Caladan—Gurney's constant vigilance is for once not an asset. There are already patrols. Procedures. Cautionary measures and redundancies.
Gurney is just an old soldier who can't sit still.
But pacing the corridors is better than lying in the rustling quiet of the barracks. An endless patchwork of bunks and commissaries make up the largest portion of this ship, a personnel transport first and foremost. And when Gurney's soldiers are up and about, he enjoys being among them. Training and music and noisy camaraderie make the hours pass quickly enough in spite of the helpless energy that lives beneath Gurney's skin.
Nighttime is a different matter entirely.
In the quiet and the dark—a heavy dimness that is never entirely black over the rows and rows of bunks—Gurney finds himself at a loss. His mind is a constant whirlwind imagining worst case scenarios, unable to turn aside from the knowledge that they are walking knowingly into a Harkonnen trap. He can't shake the fear that all their spies, all their preparation, all their caution and strategies won't be enough. Even worse, here in this limbo, there is nothing he can do to protect his House and his family.
There is only the stubborn readiness, and the farce of a patrol that he has embarked upon. He moves along night-quiet decks—all the same low lighting, the ship's internal systems imposing the rhythms House Atreides will find waiting for them on Arrakis—and crosses from a provision-packed storage bay, down into to the royal wing where family and household sleep. The guard standing watch at the mid-deck airlock gives him a sharp, acknowledging nod and lets him pass. So does the next guard he encounters along the grim metallic corridor.
The Duke's family is well protected. If only Gurney could shake the feeling that it won't be enough.
He startles to a halt at a faint, string-plucked melody. The sound wafts toward him, like a breeze in the perfectly still air of the transport. Three steps forward and he can hear notes more distinctly: the unmistakable chords of a baliset.
A grudging smile cracks across Gurney's sour expression. There can only be one source for that sound in this wing, and the closer he draws, the more certain he is of his conclusion. When he stops at Paul Atreides' door, he finds himself warming with a calm he hasn't felt for hours. The music, imperfect as it is—rife with subtle mistakes, repetitions of practice trying to smooth out the melody—fills him with pleasure, and he's glad for the thinness of the metal walls, grateful for this momentary respite.
He is trying to decide if he should knock when Paul's voice calls through the door, "Come in, Gurney Halleck."
Gurney snorts and shakes his head, but sets his palm to the lock panel beside the door. The door slides open, and even though Gurney knew it would—even though Paul told him to come in, and would not have done so if he hadn't coded the lock to give Gurney access—he still finds himself startled at the show of trust and welcome.
There are only three people who have quarters to themselves on this overcrowded vessel. Only the royal family themselves. The topmost members of the House must share, small quarters with multiple bunks built along the walls. Even Doctor Yueh, honored among the Duke's staff, occupies such a space.
Gurney is glad of the barracks, considering the alternative. Even Paul's room, private though it may be, is so small as to feel claustrophobic. No windows—not that there would be anything to see besides a vast, dark hangar bay—and no decoration on the bare walls. A narrow bed is the only piece of furniture, the metal frame bolted lengthwise to both wall and floor. The mattress and sheets look soft, but that's little enough comfort.
The only pleasant sight in this room is Paul Atreides himself, sitting upright at the head of the bed, instrument in hand, fingers gone still on the strings. He's smiling. The golden softness cast by a small suspensor lamp isn't quite enough to conceal the tired strain touching Paul's lovely face.
Gurney folds his arms over his chest. "You brought your baliset." His tone is wry, but the truth is, he's surprised. Paul enjoys music, but he'll never be a proficient. Too focused on other studies, other priorities, and rightly so. Music is not the skill that will keep Paul alive in a Harkonnen stronghold, no matter how earnestly Gurney taught him to play.
The fact that Paul didn't leave the instrument behind sets off a bright cascade of fondness in Gurney's chest, and he does his best to keep the rush of emotion from showing on his face.
"So did you, old man," Paul retorts. Making light of the fact that, with such strict limitations on how much could be packed for the journey, this decision speaks volumes.
"Keep playing." If Gurney's voice sounds a little deeper than usual, a little more rough with gravel, at least Paul has the good grace not to call him out for it.
He wishes he held his own baliset right now, as he makes certain the door is secure and eases further into the room. But his instrument is waiting in the barracks, and he's not going to detour all the way back to the upper decks when the pleasant strangeness of this moment feels so fragile. Gurney doesn't bother asking permission before sitting at the foot of Paul's bed, kicking off his boots and leaning against the wall.
"Make yourself comfortable, why don't you?" Paul says, but there's laughter touching his voice and a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Gurney can't help crinkling right back at him, as Paul begins another tune.
He's heard Paul play hundreds of times, but rarely like this in recent years. Rarely just the two of them. There's something uncharacteristically shy in the performance whenever Paul plays for others, as though he's self-conscious over being less than perfect. A young man of extraordinary gifts and talents, wrong-footed because in this one thing he does not excel. Gurney's always been touched by the fact that Paul tries anyway—has always wondered if it's for his sake that Paul continues to practice.
In front of Gurney, there is no self-consciousness. Gurney has never asked why.
Eventually, eyes beginning to droop with the lateness of the hour, Paul stops. Before Gurney can make his goodnights and remove himself from the room, Paul extends the baliset toward him.
"Play for a while," Paul says, fingers brushing over Gurney's with the handoff. "If you're not too tired." Exhausted is Gurney is, he has no real desire to leave. He'll have to run himself far more ragged than this before he'll be able to sleep. He also doesn't think to protest when Paul squirms downward along the bed, lying back and putting his feet in Gurney's lap—not until several heartbeats later, and by then it seems too late to say anything. His protest should have come immediately or not at all.
This is strange though. He and his young master have always been easy in each other's space—a necessity of instruction and sparring—but they've never done anything like this. Gurney would have some uncomfortable questions to answer if anyone saw him now. It leaves him feeling shaken, even as he admits to himself that he and Paul have been circling this off-balance closeness for months.
He plays a song. Then another. For the third he allows himself to sing, careful to keep his voice low so that no one wandering past in the corridor will hear him.
Gurney glances up instead of launching into a fourth song, and finds that Paul's eyes have drifted shut. His skinny chest rises and falls with the steadiness of sleep beneath Paul's white shirt. A different sort of softness pulses behind Gurney's ribs, and he moves carefully as he eases off the bed. Paul breathes a sleepy sound and rolls onto his side, face squashing the pillow. Gurney props the baliset in a corner with reverential care, then moves as silently as he can toward the door.
He's only halfway there when Paul says behind him, "You can sleep here."
Gurney turns, incredulous and slow. He finds Paul watching him with one open eye, the other side of his face lost in the pillow. The little imp hasn't even bothered sitting up.
Even so, a pleased warmth has already begun to twine beneath Gurney's skin, and he squashes it down, forces himself to answer, "I shouldn't."
"You'd go back to the barracks instead of staying to keep me warm?"
The petulant tone startles a whuff of laughter from Gurney's chest, and it's with difficulty he fights to keep his voice down, painfully aware of how easily sound carries into the corridor. "Keep you warm?"
"It's not my fault I have no body mass to speak of. Space is cold." Never mind the fact that Paul is laying on top of the covers with bare feet, or that one of the few comforts of this ridiculous little room is a private thermostat. The pretext is barely relevant. The request is what matters.
Gurney falls more serious. "Do you really want me to stay?" As if sitting on Paul's bed, with bare feet in his lap and a borrowed baliset beneath his hands wasn't transgression enough. Now Gurney is considering sharing this ridiculously narrow bunk for no other reason than wanting to.
"I really want you to stay," Paul says.
"There's not enough space for both of us." There really isn't, Gurney realizes, even as he says the words. Snugged tightly together, it will still be a challenge to keep from falling on the floor. Paul may take up about the same amount of space as a fencepost, but this isn't a bed designed for two.
"We'll make it work."
Paul sounds completely confident, so Gurney stops fighting. He shrugs out of his jacket, folding the rough fabric and setting the garment down on the floor for lack of any better option. There are probably storage compartments built into these walls—Paul's belongings must be somewhere—but Gurney is too tired to ask, and he'd rather have the jacket close at hand. Just in case he needs to beat a hasty retreat.
Paul makes no move to crawl under the blankets as Gurney approaches, clearly comfortable with the cool air and the thin fabric of his pajamas. Keeping warm indeed.
Gurney stands there in the cramped aisle beside the bed, suddenly unsure of the logistics of accepting Paul's invitation. "You gonna scoot over?"
"Nope," Paul says, eyes closed again, already fading.
Gurney breathes an exasperated sigh. Then he lies down on the bunk anyway, pushing and manhandling Paul to make room. Paul rolls with his maneuvering, unprotesting though he makes the occasional sleepy sound. Eventually Gurney manages to lie comfortably on his back, having claimed the sole pillow for his own.
Paul lies half beside him, half draped across his chest, with one leg hooked over Gurney's knee.
This should not feel restful. It's strange, and inappropriate, and wildly unprecedented. But as the suspensor lamp automatically dims, washing the room in shadows, Gurney feels more serene than he has in days. Calmness rolls lazily through him, and he closes his eyes with a rush of gratitude.
It's not long before the steady, warm ghost of Paul's breath lulls Gurney Halleck to sleep.