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"Roses are out of season," Duncan announces, leaning in a cocky pose against the frame of Gurney's open door.
Gurney doesn't raise his head to acknowledge Duncan's presence—any more than he bothered to give any outward sign of noticing Duncan's utter failure to knock before making himself at home—but he answers without looking up. "Are they?"
It's obvious what inspired Duncan's comment, even if Gurney does make a demonstrative show of continuing his work. If Gurney remains focused on the dull, steady process of updating his training logs for the newest recruits, there will be no tell for Duncan to catch and grow suspicious. Gurney's desk, butted directly up against the wall nearest the door, allows him to track Duncan in his peripheral vision without diverting his attention—but he sees nothing in Duncan's posture or expression to suggest what purpose brought him to Gurney's quarters tonight.
"Not your usual choice of decor, either." Duncan sweeps into the room with a nudge that sets the door swinging shut. Before Gurney can protest—even if he were feeling up to conjuring some pretext to do so—Duncan picks up the rose from the edge of Gurney's desk. He holds it by the short, delicate stem. "Pretty, though."
Gurney finally gives up on his log, closing the account book and pushing it away. He slides his chair back, crossing his arms pointedly as he gives Duncan an unimpressed look.
The rose looks tiny in Duncan's big hands, the deep pink a disconcerting burst of color in Gurney's otherwise drab quarters. There are thorns along the stem, but Duncan seems to be deftly avoiding them as he examines the specimen with unconcealed curiosity.
"Since when do you like flowers?" Duncan sets the rose down again with just enough reverent care that Gurney decides to forgive him for picking it up in the first place.
"I've always liked flowers," Gurney says. His sister loved flowers. It kills him that he can't remember what kind. Not roses, though. He doubts his sister ever saw a rose.
She probably would have loved them.
"Where'd you even get it?" Duncan shrugs out of his uniform jacket—a sure sign that he has invited himself not just for a quick visit but for a full evening of pestering Gurney—and drops to the foot of Gurney's bed with all the ease of a man who is long accustomed to his closest friend's lack of furniture. He scoots his shoulder blades right up against the wall and folds one leg up to his chest.
"Get your boots off my bed, you filthy ogre," Gurney says instead of answering, praying no hint of caught-out emotion shows on his face. His chest has gone cold at the question, and the unsteady anxiety is unpleasant no matter how familiar the sensation might be.
Leave it to Duncan Idaho to tug at the one loose thread in Gurney's tightly stitched defenses. Of course he won't just content himself with acknowledging the strangeness of the flower. He has to ask where it came from, when the last damn thing Gurney dares to admit is that Paul Atreides had a sentimental moment and brought it as a sheepish, smiling gift from his mother's green house.
But Duncan only snorts in wry amusement, kicking off his boots and letting them tumble to the floor without any care for where they land.
Before the same line of questioning can resume, Gurney asks, "Did you actually want something, or are you just here to be entertained?"
He's not worried about offending Duncan. If Gurney Halleck's dour moods were enough to scare Duncan away, this friendship would not have formed in the first place—let alone carried forward across so many years, beyond the rank and file, into their symmetrical and necessary positions as warmasters to House Atreides. Duncan knows his value. He understands his place in Gurney's affections, even if nine times out of ten Gurney would rather quote song lyrics or scripture than admit those affections out loud.
It's not that Gurney Halleck isn't an affectionate man. It's that some days he finds it difficult to take joy in human connection—difficult to be human at all. And while those days no longer come as often as they used to, he still marshals his resources like a man under siege. Gurney knows how to smile. He loves with a ferocity that would burn down the very universe to protect his chosen family. But some days he is a cranky son of a bitch, and anyone who truly cares about him makes peace with that sooner or later.
Even Paul Atreides—the impossible young man who makes Gurney feel more human than he ever thought possible—can't singlehandedly chase away every nightmare and shadow from Gurney's psyche.
Though Paul makes an earnest effort. And when those efforts fail to shake a foul mood and a heavy heart, he stays stubbornly close—steady and quiet—and Gurney might love him even more those nights than in any brighter, happier daylight.
He doesn't realize how far he's spiraled into these thoughts until Duncan speaks, a shade too much caution in an otherwise laughing tone.
"It's been a long day, is all. I thought you might be thirsty." Duncan grins as he says this, raising the flask that is always concealed somewhere within the pockets of his uniform.
Gurney forces his mind back to the present—to the small, sunset-tinged contours of his quarters—to the friend sitting on the foot of his bed offering him a drink. The warmth and camaraderie of here and now, that he does not want to miss, no matter how far his thoughts are threatening to wander.
He answers with a heartbeat too much delay. "You just want to get drunk and argue about the hopeless inexperience of this year's recruits."
"Is that so wrong?"
"It's not exactly productive." But Gurney is smiling now, the expression genuine. "They're always green as fuck, and they always learn better."
"Mmm." Duncan takes a swig from the flask. "But what if they're too green this time?"
Gurney rolls his eyes as Duncan holds the flask out toward him, but accepts the handoff readily. Cramped as his quarters are—the fact that he has a room to himself is proof of his status within House Atreides, even if he spends half his nights in the barracks regardless—he barely has to scoot his chair at all to kick his own feet up on the bed beside Duncan.
"Hey," Duncan protests. "How come you're not taking off your boots?"
"My boots, my bed. Also your boots are caked with mud." Gurney takes a slow pull from the drink in his hand, then shakes his head in disapproval. "My god, man, how can you spend this kind of money on good alcohol and then carry it around in a metal flask? It's disrespectful."
"Fine," Duncan says. "Next time I'll bring you shitty alcohol. That'll certainly teach me."
It's only later, when they're both tipsy and loose, that Duncan catches Gurney in a stare that is far too piercing—and far too purposeful for the amount of alcohol they've consumed—and asks, "You doing okay?"
Gurney blinks at him in surprise. "I'm great. Why wouldn't I be doing okay?"
And maybe if they were sober Duncan wouldn't spend quite so long considering him with that strange, watchful look. But it feels like it takes an eon before Duncan finally shrugs and drinks another slow swallow from the flask.
"I just… can't remember you ever keeping secrets from me. Don't get me wrong, you're allowed. Everyone's allowed secrets. But it feels weird. I want to know they're good secrets, y'know? Because if they're bad secrets, I want to help."
There is such earnest clumsiness in this pronouncement, that Gurney can't help smiling. Despite the fear of Duncan learning the truth of Gurney's secrets. Despite the very real possibility that one day Duncan will realize Gurney has crossed treasonous lines with Paul Atreides, and will have a reckoning of conscience for which he may never forgive Gurney. In this moment, Duncan's concern is straightforward and utterly sincere.
"They're good secrets," Gurney says softly. Nothing more than that. Duncan is not asking for explanations.
Duncan absorbs this for several somber seconds, then finally gives a decisive nod. "Good."