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Paul wakes slowly, his chest warm with a sensation of contentment so powerful that even his usual disconcerting dreams—the ones he's heard murmuring at the back of his mind his entire life—can't touch the smile playing across his mouth.
It only takes him a few lazy seconds to identify the reason he's so happy—memory and more physical sensory input coming nearly simultaneously—and he grins wider without opening his eyes, snuggling into the sturdy inferno of Gurney's body. Gurney lies curled along Paul's side, draped half on top of him, and the old warmaster's weight is enough to give Paul's sleepy mind all sorts of ideas.
This is an uncommon blessing, waking in Gurney's arms. So often they can't get away with this, no matter whose bed they sleep in. Too many conflicting duties interfere, too many people paying attention to where they are supposed to be.
But neither of them has any obligations today, and the unlikely respite means for once Paul can have this. He can laze in his own bed surrounded by the naked heat of tangled limbs. He can savor this quiet intimacy as it expands inside him, instead of bottling it up for fear of anyone asking him what he's smiling about.
"Good morning." Gurney's voice rumbles low, his heavy baritone graveled with sleep, sending a shiver along Paul's spine. His breath tickles the hollow of Paul's throat and he doesn't bother raising his head.
"Mmhm," Paul agrees, nuzzling against the short buzz of hair at Gurney's temple.
They lie together for a long time without any further need to speak. Paul is sleepy, but not tired. There is nothing inside him of the restlessness that he usually expends so much effort keeping at bay—no tightly coiled energy forcing him to unnatural stillness for want of an outlet—no ceaseless clatter of data rolling through his mind in search of patterns, conclusions, outcomes.
There is only Gurney, tucked snugly into his space, and the steady pace of their breaths rising and falling in near unison.
"No dreams?" Gurney shifts, easing to the side a little so he can fold an arm against the pillows and prop his head on his hand—peering down as Paul blinks his eyes open to the sight of cloud-diffused sunlight slanting across Gurney's bare shoulders, glinting in the silver of his beard.
"Some dreams." Paul lets his fingers settle at Gurney's flank, playing across bare skin in idle patterns. The touch probably tickles, but Gurney's expression offers no sign of noticing or minding. "But they weren't bad ones."
There are always dreams—and they are never only dreams—and Paul can't remember there ever being a time he didn't have them. He's not sure Gurney truly believes the strangeness, but he's never refused to take them seriously. Probably because the first time Paul admitted to them was in this very bed, after waking from a violent vision of unwelcome possibilities.
He woke shaking and silent, a scream lodged unvoiced in his throat and tears burning the corners of his eyes, and his panic had scared Gurney witless.
Paul spent three days certain Duncan Idaho wouldn't return from the dangerous scouting expedition he had watched go awry in his mind. And when Duncan returned, injured but whole, Paul hadn't even bothered to be offended that Gurney clearly considered the exercise a matter of simple nightmares.
There have been other dreams since. Always more dreams. Maybe enough to convince Gurney that Paul is dealing with more than a stubborn and vivid subconscious.
"Can't remember the last time I saw you this relaxed," Gurney rumbles. His palm settles on Paul's stomach, fingers spreading wide, thumb ghosting back and forth. Paul shivers and doesn't bother pointing out that if Gurney keeps doing that, he's going to have to expend some serious energy before Paul lets him out of this bed.
"Guess you should wear me out more often." Paul grins, a flash of teeth. "I slept better than I have in weeks."
Gurney's answering chuckle is throaty and smooth, and it sends tingles of pleasure along Paul's nerves. As though he weren't already desperately aware of Gurney's physical presence beside him—the solid, steady heat of him—the protective strength that can hold Paul down so easily. As though he needs reminding of the impossible fact that he gets to have this.
The hand at Paul's stomach lifts away, and Gurney's smile softens as he tucks sleep-disheveled curls back from Paul's face and traces blunt fingertips in a gentle tease across Paul's lips.
"You gonna kiss me?" Paul asks.
"Maybe." Gurney's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he cups Paul's jawline with his distractingly warm palm. "But if I kiss you, I'll probably get carried away."
"God forbid." Paul widens his eyes in an imitation of shock. "How will I face such disastrous consequences?"
"Impudent whelp," Gurney snorts.
"Your impudent whelp," Paul corrects him, covering Gurney's hand and nuzzling into his palm.
Gurney closes on him so quickly all Paul manages is a squeak of surprise, but he opens immediately for the demand of Gurney's mouth—wraps his arms around broad shoulders as Gurney's powerful bulk settles fully on top of him.
And when Gurney's hands begin to wander, Paul melts beneath his touch.