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Paul remembers the first time he saw Gurney Halleck bleed.
He’s nine years old. Little over a week ago, he waved goodbye as his father, Gurney and some new recruits headed out on what was supposed to be a training run. Nothing more than escorting some valuable cargo – an excuse to evaluate the recruits in action.
They get news that there’s been melee and that many are injured. Some reported dead. Paul isn’t supposed to be in the hangar bay, but no one is going to tell the young Atreides’ heir that he can’t wait for his father to return.
Leto doesn’t exit the first ship, and Paul is already crying by the time the second ship lowers its ramps.
This time Leto is one of the first people off, talking quickly to the woman next to him, not even noticing Paul at first. He’s leading a group of injured, barking orders, rapidly listing off the nature of their injuries and what medical support is needed, and then…
“Paul?”
And Paul can’t manage a single word. He’s just staring up at his father, his alive-still-here-still-breathing father, and if anything, he’s proud that he doesn’t simply end up crying even harder with relief.
“What are you doing here?”
Leto’s voice is softer as he gathers Paul in his arms and holds him close to his chest. The armor is uncomfortable and rough against the palms of Paul’s hands, but he clings to him anyway.
Whatever dread he felt before, a sense of calm has come over him now. Leto’s okay, he’s home, he’s alive. He’s holding Paul, and Paul is resting his head on a shoulder pad, and all will be well.
That’s when the last soldiers exit the ship, and Paul spots Gurney being led down the ramp. He’s not wearing his full armor; part of it has been torn off to wrap gauze around one of his legs, as well as his torso. He’s limping, another soldier at his side, shouldering part of his weight. The grey plates of his armor are stained in deep shades of red, and the under armor is still slick with blood from wounds that have yet to close.
Paul has no idea how long he’s been staring – has no idea for how long he’s held his breath.
“Gurney?”
His voice is small, but Leto hears him and gently puts him down on the ground. Paul doesn’t have the time to feel disoriented, because then Leto takes one of his hands, so that they can meet Gurney together.
“Don’t worry”, Leto says, voice steady and stubborn, like he’s not talking to Paul at all. “He’ll pull through.”
“He doesn’t look good”, Paul whispers, and then Gurney catches sight of them, and when he does, he smiles. Even now, years later, Paul remembers that smile – at the time he didn’t understand how someone in so much pain could smile so brightly.
“Hello, my lord”, he says, and while his voice is strained, it’s also warm, and the thought hits Paul that maybe this is the last time he’ll ever heard it.
His sight gets blurry, and he’s not even aware that he’s crying, but he sees Gurney look at Leto for a second before he looks back at Paul.
“I’m alright”, he says, and Paul nods because he’s supposed to nod, but he doesn’t believe it for a second. “Really, I am – look.”
And then Gurney removes one of his gloves. It’s clearly not easy for him – he grimaces with every finger he frees from the tight confines of the under armor – but then his hand is bare, and there are no cuts and no blood, just pale skin. It looks like normal, like when they’re reading together and Gurney traces the words with the tip of his finger, so that Paul can follow the text easily.
He holds out his hand to Paul – like it’s an actual proof of something, like it’s a promise – and Paul reaches out his own, fingers trailing the palm of Gurney’s hand. The skin is rough beneath his touch, and it’s warm, and if – in this moment – someone was to tell Paul that Gurney would be here forever, that nothing could ever eradicate him from the universe, he would believe them.
“I’m alright”, Gurney says again, and this time, Paul doesn’t just nod because he’s supposed to.
He can’t imagine that there was much thought put into the act. At that point, Gurney must have been running on no sleep and have been delirious from blood loss; desperate to comfort a crying child, and yet – how significant it felt to Paul.
He often thinks back on that moment, because throughout his life he is told many things, and rarely shown anything. Rarely has anyone, on purpose, removed the layers that separates him from the rest of the world.
The second time he sees Gurney Halleck bleed, Paul is also bleeding.
He is fourteen, and he has trained with Duncan Idaho for several years now. It makes sense to bring him into the field. It makes sense that enemies of House Atreides would take note of this, and use this one opportunity to strike. What’s supposed to be covert and low-stakes quickly turns deadly.
It’s not that Paul doesn’t have people to protect him, it isn’t that he doesn’t have the training to fight back – it’s simply that they’re overwhelmed. He watches soldier after soldier put their body between him and the assailants, not a single one hesitating to die in his place.
Duncan is protecting his flank, and the troops are thinning, and next thing he knows Paul is facing a massive brute of a man – a head taller than him, shoulders broad enough that he could probably tear Paul limb from limb with his bare hands. All he knows to do is to rely on his training. He manages to duck a blow, and his shield parries the follow-up.
The second blow he takes head on, the blade thankfully only grazing his shoulder, and the pain hasn’t even caught up with him when Gurney Halleck appears out of nowhere, exhausted, bleeding, throwing his entire body at the enemy soldier to get him away from Paul.
They prepare him for a lot in training – Duncan telling vivid tales from the battlefield – but nothing has truly prepared him for the sight of someone being viciously beaten to death. There’s no finesse to it. Just pure animal instinct and desperation.
By the time the soldier is dead, reinforcements have arrived, and Paul is safe.
All of this, all this death, to keep him – the heir – alive.
Gurney is on his knees only a few feet away, breathing heavy, already bruised – some of the blood on his armor is his own, but most of it isn’t. A nasty cut runs down his face, stretching from his cheekbone to his chin, piercing skin and flesh, blood streaming down his neck.
Paul stares at him. Stares at the actions done in his name, and then Gurney catches him staring.
The darkness in his eyes fades, the grim set of his mouth softens. He scrambles to get up, wincing as he does so, leaning on his blade as he walks – but he makes it over to Paul all the same.
“Are you hurt, my lord?”
Gurney’s voice is rough, but it’s still him – warm, open-hearted concern, spoken through a split lip, a face bruised with blues and purples, a body tense and contorted from pushing through the pain.
Paul nods, and he feels Duncan’s presence at his side, and it’s over, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, because while he’s not injured, to say he isn’t hurt would be to lie.
“Your shoulder”, Gurney’s voice is strained, and his hand is shaking as he reaches into the space between them, all soft, all worry, as if the knuckles of his armor doesn’t still carry the blood and viscera of the man that did this to Paul.
This is all it takes for Paul to snap out of it. To scramble to remove the padding and glove from one of his hands, and hold it out to Gurney.
“I’m alright”, he says, sounding anything but.
Gurney looks between the unscathed palm of his hand and Paul’s face, bewildered at first, and then there’s a look of recognition – some of the tension draining from his shoulders as he realizes what Paul is doing.
By the looks of it, it’s not easy for him to tear one of his gloves off, but he does it all the same. Then he places his hand in Paul’s, gently, only lingering briefly, and the world is still on fire, and Paul has seen friends and comrades die, but for at least a moment he remembers how to breathe again.
He looks at their hands, Gurney’s so big in his, and when he finally allows himself to look up at Gurney, he’s met with a smile. It strains the cut on his face, droplets of blood spilling down his chin, and it doesn’t seem to bother him at all.
“Let’s get you on that ship”, Gurney says then, as if he isn’t the one who needs support to even stand upright.
By that point, Duncan interrupts the two of them, laughing as he bursts in to help Gurney to his feet, and only in that moment does Paul realize where the smiles and the sarcasm and the boisterousness comes from. How else would you live through this, over and over? How would you face new comrades, if you knew that there was only one possible end to their journey? How can one open their heart to someone who is human and breakable, when everything breaks in the end?
After that, they don’t really get the chance to bleed in front of each other again. Leto ensures that Paul is kept safe at all costs – trained behind closed doors, never venturing outside for more than is necessary.
It’s nothing new, it’s practically the life he’s already lead, but – as the years go by the isolation gets to him. A creeping, gradual shift, where safety eventually feels like little more than a prison. Paul spends his time within the castle’s ancient walls, or outside, walking through the grasslands and by the ocean, wondering when his life will begin.
Unease isn’t the only thing that creeps up on him though. Misery loves company, and Paul can’t really tell when he started getting so easily distracted, but it was long after all scars were healed and smooth and pale, and the only blood he’d seen in a long time was spilled in his dreams.
No matter where he is, no matter what he’s busying himself with, he’s miserably aware of when Gurney Halleck is in the same space with him. Paul can tell it’s him by presence alone; the steadiness of his footsteps, and the scent of him; pine trees and the salt of a deep, dark ocean.
He finds himself stealing glances at a profile that shouldn’t offer him anything new, and no matter how hard he tries not to, he thinks back to that bleeding gash running down Gurney’s cheek; he thinks of tracing it’s healed, inkvine shape with his fingertips.
Gurney knows; of course he does. Not because Paul has told him – he’d rather flee into the wilderness than speak of these things.
No, Gurney knows because there are few people who pay as much attention to Paul as he does. And well, Paul knows that Gurney knows because their world has shifted, incrementally so – but to him it might as well have been a cataclysmic event. A sense of not knowing what he had until it was taken from him.
When Gurney catches Paul staring, something pained, something sad, ghosts over his features. When they play together, Gurney is effective in correcting Paul’s form, his hands never lingering on Paul’s as he adjusts his hold on the strings of the baliset.
They still laugh, they still joke, but there’s restraint there that reminds Paul of the rest of his father’s men; the ones who keep a polite distance, and would never be so foolish as to actually get close with the Duke’s son.
Perhaps Gurney has finally decided that he doesn’t wish to be a fool either – if so, Paul would not blame him.
They’re leaving for Arrakis, and no one tells Paul anything. He’s running after Duncan, running after his dad, feeling like he’s doing nothing but trying to catch up to them, like it’s up to him to piece together what actually awaits them in the desert.
All they want is to protect him, and all he wants is answers – to not feel like he’s carrying his nerves outside of his skin.
At least he doesn’t have to chase Gurney Halleck.
As reliably as gentle rain falls in spring, the man goes to find Paul, as if he instinctually knows that Paul needs someone to find him.
Gurney isn’t his normal, jovial self either, and it’s somewhat reassuring to realize that everyone’s on edge – that Paul is far from the only one feeling lost.
When they spar, the lesson itself offers little new, but there’s an almost brutal element to it. A fear in Gurney’s eyes that Paul hasn’t found in anyone else, and that fear echoes through every reprimand, and every order for Paul to fight.
It’s not what they once had, but Paul finds himself lost in this new sense of vulnerability – it almost feels like honesty. It makes him feel like maybe he isn’t the only one who has changed. That wherever these sudden shifts have taken him, Gurney might just be following him down the same road.
Days later, as they’re getting ready to step off the Atreides ships onto their new home planet, Paul doesn’t know what to do with the nervous energy beneath his skin. He’s in ceremonial wear, surrounded by men in full suits of armor. Outside the ship’s hull the wind is howling, and even before the doors open, he can feel the shift in temperature – the blazing heat of Arrakis awaiting them.
The lights inside the ship are dim, but even so, Paul can see Gurney clearly; the silhouette of him as – even in a place like this – he reads from a small book, lips moving silently with the words of the text. Then, just as the doors open, those hazel eyes are raised to face their new world, and the sun casts him in a soft light.
Paul watches him take the lead. Watches as he strides off the ship, head held high, like he carries no fear or doubts within.
The second Gurney steps into the sands he comes to a halt, letting Leto walk past him, and then he turns to offer Jessica a hand. As he does so, his eyes are not on her; Paul finds himself the only focus of that intent stare, and for a brief moment he can imagine that hand being offered to him instead – can remember what it feels like to have Gurney’s calloused palm in his.
They meet many hours later, and while it feels intentional, it’s anything but.
Paul is wandering the hallways close to his room, having convinced himself that this will feel like less of a bunker if he just gets acquainted with the space. He's slipped into his coat though. The garment is nearly too warm for Arrakis, but the controlled temperatures of the indoors makes it bearable, and while it feels sort of silly - he just needed another layer between himself and this new world. He needed to find something safe to hold on to - the coat resting heavy on his shoulders like a welcome embrace - and as if the universe is directly trying to answer this vague need of his, he rounds a corner and practically runs into Gurney Halleck.
“You look pale”, Paul says, thinking that he’d rather be companionable than offer a shallow greeting – and then he’s immediately regretting the words.
Still, it’s not as if his observation is incorrect. Gurney is still in his armor, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Paul has no idea what duties he’s been tasked with, but he’s likely had no rest since they landed.
“We all look pale here”, Gurney replies, but his voice is strained, like it actually takes some effort to speak. Normally he would only sound this way after a night of singing, or a week in enemy territory.
“Where are your quarters?” Paul is unsure if he ever thought the question would sound innocent, but judging by how Gurney’s eyes widen at the words, he has certainly failed at being inconspicuous.
“In the barracks, with the rest of the men.”
Once he’s done speaking, Gurney stares at Paul, as if daring him to continue down this path, and well, Paul does hesitate – but he doesn’t change the topic.
“My room is down that hallway”, he says, nodding as he speaks, and Gurney’s eyes follow the movement, as if his instinct is to memorize the layout of these sprawling hallways, before he catches himself, and his gaze snaps back to Paul’s face.
There’s no immediate reply, but Gurney does offer a noncommittal hum, as if it’s the only comment available to him that isn’t incriminating.
While neither of them makes any effort to continue the conversation, neither of them goes to leave either. As the moment builds between them, undefined and somewhat dangerous, a nervous energy is crackling beneath Paul’s skin, and he doesn’t know what to do with it – has no idea how to rid himself of this mounting pressure.
“I overlooked the city with your father. There is much to do.” When Gurney speaks it sounds like formality, except he forgoes honorifics in a way that is quite uncharacteristic for him. “I’m not sure I’ll be around much.”
Paul takes a deep breath, attempting a smile, but it feels like nothing but a hollow grimace pulls at the corner of his lips. “What else is to expect from our new world?”
And Gurney’s gaze is heavy on him now, mouth set in a troubled, thin line. Then he offers a courteous nod, clearly having reached some decision within himself, but as he goes to leave, Paul does the only thing he can thing of; he puts his hand out, palm up, fingers spread wide.
As soon as he’s done this horribly impulsive thing – reaching for Gurney as if he could reach through time and space and still have him – Paul practically forgets how to breathe.
His heart is beating so fast, and he should regret this, he should feel ashamed over how poorly he guards his heart, but there’s no room for regret in his mind, because so much has changed, but they can still have this.
This can be the same, or it can change with them – he doesn’t care which.
All he needs is that anchor.
All he needs is for Gurney to look beyond this transformation in him, and still see Paul; to still be willing to meet him halfway.
He has no idea for how long he stands in front of Gurney, holding out his palm, asking this tired old soldier for something familiar and safe; something dangerous and new.
Then, finally, Gurney takes the glove off his hand.
Paul watches him work, thinking that this is something he could do for Gurney. He could be the one to loosen the glove from the armor; he could gently tug on each finger of the glove until it gave way to skin; he could lose himself to these daydreams, but nothing could compare to finally having Gurney’s hand in his again.
Gurney doesn’t just place his hand in Paul’s. He slides his fingers up to the pulse point of Paul’s wrist, as if worried about his health, but then his thumb and index finger circle Paul’s wrist, barely holding on.
Paul’s breath catches, and he finds himself unable to look at anything but those battle-scarred fingers resting directly against his skin.
Then, eventually, he mirrors Gurney; thinking of change as he does so; thinking of how there’s still room for them to change together. They’re holding each other in this empty hallway, heading in different directions, but it almost feels like home.
“You should get some rest”, Gurney says, as if he intends to end the sentence with an honorific, but decides to once again forego it.
“You’re one to talk, old man”, Paul mutters, not exactly intending to smile, but doing so anyway – finding himself wondering what the hesitant expression looks like to Gurney.
For all his anxiety leading up to their move here, whatever fear he held that he had changed irreversibly and headed down a path Gurney couldn’t follow, Paul now finds himself able to take deep breaths again – finds his heart beating at a steady, calming pace.
God, he lingers beyond what’s good for them; and he is painfully aware that he can only do so because Gurney lingers too.
Here, Paul pauses to look at Gurney intently, the way he would normally only do through stolen glances. He takes in the majestic frame of the armor; neckline accentuating Gurney’s jawline and beard; the shoulder pads enhancing his already impressive frame; the narrow waist, and the armoring on his thighs bringing attention to the flex of muscle underneath.
The silhouette of a soldier has always looked like home to Paul, mostly because this is the world he’s been trained for – the men he has learned to trust. It’s only recently that he’s found this particular look, on this particular man, to be so, well, distracting.
Gurney’s hand is so warm in his, and with the shock of having stepped into the sands earlier in the day, Paul could have never imagined seeking out heat this way, yet here he is now – ready to chase it anywhere, beyond what’s reasonable.
They can’t stay here, that much is obvious. It’s only a question of time until someone else will come walking down the hallway, and no matter what explanation they could offer for being seen this way, it wouldn’t be enough to stop rumours from spreading.
But – even as he goes to pull away, Paul doesn’t break eye contact. Slowly, slowly, he starts walking, and Gurney does the same, each of them heading in different directions, their hands still touching, fingertips trailing over palms until they finally, finally lose contact.
Even then – Paul looks over his shoulder, finding those hazel eyes still on him, soft around the edges.
Everything has changed, but he will still have this. Can always return to the safety of an open hand, offered willingly, ready to pull him out of any trouble that life will throw at him.
They’ve barely gotten acquainted with Arrakis when – alone in his quarters – Paul destroys a hunter-seeker with his bare hands. In the moment, he’s too caught up in trying to survive; he doesn’t even think of what he would leave behind; nothing in particular flashes before his eyes, because he knows he’ll only live if he keeps his focus.
Only afterward, when he holds the machine in the palm of his hand, broken pieces crushed against his pale skin, does reality catch up with him; how close he has come to dying. How the threats aren’t theoretical nor something of the distant future; Paul and his family are in danger now, and if the Harkonnens have grown this bold in their assassination attempts – who knows what’s to come?
He steadies his breathing, closing his eyes for a moment, and in this liminal space between envisioning what could have been, and what this means for his future, he can also so easily imagine a hand in his own. A grounding touch to calm his racing mind.
Paul doesn’t get the chance to meet Gurney until they all gather for the strategy meeting, and even then, Paul is practically the last one to enter the room, losing out on the chance to talk to Gurney in private beforehand.
“Your first strategy meeting”, Gurney greets him, calling the attention of everyone in the room. “Paul Atreides, who catches hunter-seekers with his bare hands!”
It’s obvious what Gurney is doing; lightening the mood in a room filled with men and women who all blame themselves that the duke’s son nearly died. This display of jokes and laughter isn’t particularly for Paul, or well – if it is, it is cleverly concealed.
What Paul ends up doing shows much less finesse. He takes the long way to his seat, just so that he can pass by Gurney as he walks around the table. He’s not even sure what compels him to pause by Gurney’s chair; to put his hand on Gurney’s shoulder and to lean down and whisper in his ear. His father’s men might read it as shyness – as Paul preferring to speak directly to a friend rather than address the entire room – but fact remains that it feels nearly indecent.
As he goes to leave, Gurney quickly reaches for him. It’s just a small gesture, that big, scarred hand coming up to cover Paul’s for but a second, but it’s intentional enough for Paul to remember Gurney’s eyes on him in the hallway. For him to relive that moment that lasted a lifetime, when neither of them would pull away.
When Gurney comments “gotta keep an eye on you” it sounds like a promise and feels like gentle fingers on Paul’s wrist.
It’s only when Leto enters the room moments later, that Gurney’s smile falters. When he stands to greet the duke, Paul notices tension in his shoulders, and Gurney even straightens his jacket, smoothing out the fabric, as if remnants of their transgression could be found on his person.
Of course, it all passes unnoticed.
No one will think twice about old friends behaving slightly irrationally after such a traumatic event – at least that’s what Paul tells himself.
What doesn’t pass unnoticed is Paul collapsing out in the dunes by the spice harvester.
What doesn’t pass unnoticed is Gurney running into certain death, hoping beyond hope to save him.
They return to the hangar in Arrakeen, and Paul is barely present enough to register his father yelling at him. He’s still slipping between visions and reality. Part of him is still bleeding out in a cave somewhere in the desert.
No one goes to find him, because no one knows what’s actually happening to him. None of the people that saw him on his knees in the sand, unresponsive to the world, would understand what the spice has triggered within him.
Paul finds himself staggering through the hallways, back towards his quarters. He wants to get out of the stillsuit. Wants to wear something that doesn’t cling to his skin like the unwanted touch of a stranger.
At least he knows that soon enough, Jessica will know, and while he’s not particularly keen on having a conversation about what’s happened – she will understand.
“Paul!”
Gurney’s voice echoes around him, and even though there’s the accompanying sound of footsteps, Paul still can’t shake the feeling that he’s still fleeting in time – that this is nothing but an echo from when Gurney called out his name by the harvester.
Then, his name is called a second time, and now Paul actually turns to look down the hallway – just to make sure. He’s so uncertain of what’s real in this moment, but when he sees Gurney running towards him, the measured pace of a trained soldier lost to worry, he suddenly knows that this couldn’t possibly be something conjured up by his mind.
Soon enough, Gurney is right in front of him, keeping an appropriate distance while his eyes trail down Paul’s body – like he could find what’s hurting Paul just by looking at him.
This time neither of them are bleeding, but they are both covered in dust; sand in Paul’s hair and in Gurney’s beard, clinging to their skin; ashen, with flecks of glitter. As they stand here, staring at each other, Paul sees his own laboured breathing mirrored in the drastic rise and fall of Gurney’s chest.
They are wild-eyed, the thrumming approach of the worm still a vibration beneath their skin, and Paul finds himself fading in and out of reality; he’s back in the dunes; he’s bleeding; he’s safe; he’s with Chani; he’s with Gurney; he will cause a genocide; he will be slaughtered; all of it matters and none of it matters.
Endless futures sprawl before them, and Paul’s hands are shaking, the stillsuit claustrophobic against his skin, and he stares at Gurney, suddenly struck by the thought that they nearly died together.
Gurney came back for him. Gurney ran into the sands and wouldn’t have gotten back on that ornithopter without Paul by his side.
“Are you alright?” Gurney asks, his voice rough like gravel and so very, very far away.
In the moment, Paul doesn’t have words. He shakes his head, and can’t look anywhere but those hazel eyes – a thousand questions found there, and Paul doesn’t have the answer to a single one.
With his pulse still rushing in his ears, Paul soon snaps out of his apathy, looking down at his hands. Next second, he’s tearing at his gloves, scrambling to rid himself of this layer between them – can’t possibly get them off fast enough – and once Gurney realizes what he’s doing, he silently follows suit.
Turns out that Paul’s hands are shaking too much to get the gloves off, and for each passing moment he grows more desperate, because this is the only thing he can ask for. The only thing that could possibly ground him. Every breath he takes is still rough with dry air and sand and spice, and his mind is still swimming with visions of lives he’s lead and deaths he’s died.
Only when Gurney tenderly steadies his hands, does he recognize the panic coursing through him. Only as those broad fingers with their familiar pattern of scars loosen the straps of Paul’s stillsuit, and then gently pulls the gloves off, does he manage to steady his breathing.
“I have you”, Gurney murmurs, skin touching skin now, their fingers entwined. Paul nods, and keeps nodding, because words fail him, but they have this; they will always have this.
No matter how much he changes; no matter how much the world changes them; he will always be able to put his hand out, fingers spread wide, and Gurney will always meet him halfway.
Paul takes a steadying breath, eyes still on their hands, the way they fit together, and then, as he breathes out, he raises his gaze to meet Gurney’s eyes. There’s worry there, definitely, but also a newfound warmth; a confirmation that this isn’t simply something done for Paul. This is something that grounds the both of them.
It’s intoxicating and the timing is horrible and Paul doesn’t care that they’re here, in this damn hallway – he finds himself wondering why he ever cared of such insignificant things.
Now, he leans forward, putting his forehead to Gurney’s, closing his eyes as he does so.
Just like how the sound of Gurney’s footsteps cut through the visions in the desert, his touch reaches deep within Paul and steadies his racing mind.
Like this, they can find some semblance of peace, and with his eyes closed Paul feels Gurney’s every breath ghost over his chin, his throat. Instead of thinking of all the things he could do – how easy it would be to close the distance between them; how he could lean forward and taste Gurney’s lips and pretend like he could explain himself through touch rather than words - Paul finds himself thinking of what they have; finds himself settling into this love that has ultimately always been simple.
Finally, it’s as if he can look beyond the fear of change, and settle into what will always remain; what is bound to follow him, no matter how much blood is spilled - no matter what awaits them in the desert.