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When Gurney receives word that the royal transport has safely landed in the main hangar, it takes every scrap of self-restraint he possesses to continue the combat training slated to fill his entire morning.
He ends the session and dismisses his troops early, but only after enough time has passed to avoid calling attention to his hurry. Surely no one can fault him for wanting to check in with his duke as efficiently as possible—even if Leto is not the reason Gurney is impatient. It's not often Gurney Halleck remains behind on Caladan when Leto Atreides ventures out into the wider solar system; and his absence was even less likely considering Paul joined his father afield.
It's only natural for the senior warmaster of House Atreides to be anxious over the safe return of both duke and heir. If he is more wrapped up in this concern than is strictly reasonable, at least he's been too busy for anyone to notice.
The two men most likely to discern any strangeness in Gurney's behavior—Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho—are both just returned as well, an overqualified security contingent leaving nothing to chance. The best hands the royal family could possibly be in, other than Gurney's own. He would still have preferred to accompany the entourage himself, but at least in the face of tangential duties keeping him away, he can be sure Paul and Leto were under excellent protection.
Gurney reports directly to Leto without bothering to change out of his dirt- and grass-stained fatigues. He's disappointed at Paul's absence from the meeting room, but carefully does not give any outward sign.
Leto, too, knows him too well for carelessness.
"House Varrik will be returning our visit within six months," Leto says, slumping in his chair like a man who has exhausted himself with diplomacy and travel. It's a testament to his trust in Gurney that he allows himself to be seen this way—tired and vulnerable—when it's only the two of them, and Gurney quashes an inevitable twinge of guilt at all the ways he is betraying that trust.
"Do you think they'll agree to your terms?" Gurney stands at a loose approximation of military attention, posture projecting an ease he does not feel—has not felt in the presence of his duke since the moment he first recognized his feelings for Paul. Incredible, how draining it is to be always on high alert, guarding his every reaction so that Leto does not suspect his treason.
He wonders if he will ever grow numb to the guilty ache, or if this is a permanent undercurrent of reproach from which there is no escape.
"I don't know." Leto scrubs a hand across his face. "Their trade agreements with Arctis have stood for six generations. They are understandably reluctant to risk anything that might endanger their access to the Thessel Mines."
"You're supposed to be a persuasive man."
"You're the persuasive one," Leto grouses. "Negotiations would have gone better with you at my side."
"Then next time don't leave me behind."
Leto huffs a laugh, wry and affectionate, and doesn't point out how little choice either of them had in the matter. Gurney carries too vast a collection of responsibilities, even for shoulders so broad, and sometimes those responsibilities conflict in ways that don't untangle easily. He cannot always be at his duke's side, or Paul's for that matter.
"Is there anything you need of me tonight, sire?" Gurney asks, when Leto's amusement fades back to familiar fatigue. In the absence of a crisis, there will be ample time for an official debrief tomorrow. Leto will likely stubborn his way through the afternoon and evening catching up on business that has waited in his absence, but none of those tasks will intersect Gurney's purview. Where Gurney Halleck is concerned, Castle Caladan takes his instructions as though they come from the duke's own mouth, leaving no unfinished business for Leto to attend.
"No. Thank you, my friend. Though I'm sure Paul would appreciate a bit of your time. He spent the entire trip telling me about your last flight training session. I think he missed you."
Again Gurney has to suppress an inevitable twinge of reaction, forcing a pale approximation of his most exasperated smile. He prays it looks bland enough to conceal the powerful burst of adoration he cannot let Leto see, or the equally powerful twist of anxiety that follows as he wonders precisely what Paul said. Paul's preoccupation must not have set off any suspicion in Leto's mind, and yet it feels like a close call.
"I'll find him," Gurney says.
"Good. You're dismissed for now. I'll see you in council tomorrow."
"Of course, sire." Gurney gives a duck of his head, the closest Leto permits of a proper bow from him these days, and retreats from the room with his heart hammering in his chest and impatience simmering beneath his skin.
He does not bother searching the keep. There is only one place Paul will have gone, anticipating that Gurney will break away from his duties at the earliest opportunity. Not Gurney's quarters—not at this hour, so soon after returning, in the absence of any reasonable pretext—but Paul's own royal chambers, where Gurney does indeed find his young master waiting for him.
Paul has been pacing. It's obvious from his balance and stance, though he has fallen still by the time Gurney steps into the antechamber and locks the door. He looks disheveled after a long day of travel, curls frizzing from the transition between air-controlled space liner and Caladan's most humid season, dress uniform rumpled around the edges.
He is so beautiful that Gurney's breath hitches at the sight of him.
The smile that breaks across Paul's face is bright as any sunrise, and Gurney opens his arms as a familiar soft glow unfurls in his chest. The room smells overwhelmingly of lavender, thanks to the household staff who have cut what seems like half the supply from the gardens just to welcome Paul home. But Paul himself is a subtler scent, rain clouds and warmth and just a hint of citrus when he rushes forward and buries himself in Gurney's embrace.
"Missed you," Paul mumbles, snuggling into the crook of Gurney's shoulder.
Gurney's endless supply of composed and borrowed words fails him, overcome by the spreading nova of emotion, and so he does not try to speak. Easier by far to curl a hand along Paul's jaw and tug him into a kiss, soft and heady and wildly perfect. Paul melts for him, opening for a deeper kiss, a rougher claiming. Gurney does not even try to be circumspect. He wraps Paul in the crush of his arms and takes what he needs, savoring the complicated mix of desire and relief that comes of finally holding Paul after too long an absence.
Paul's fingertips trace through the silvery scrape of Gurney's beard, hands framing his face with a disconcertingly gentle touch. Gurney forces himself to stop, to ease back, to meet Paul's searching eyes.
"You okay?" Paul asks, low and knowing. His eyes are narrowed, piercing straight into Gurney's soul.
"Aye, m'lord," Gurney rasps. "Now that you're here."
"Is it too early to invite you to bed?" There is only fierce intensity in the gravel of Paul's voice—enough to reassure Gurney that his young master is too desperate for this to be teasing. Even so, Gurney can't help the nearly soundless huff of laughter that rumbles from his chest, the fond smile that shines all the way to his eyes.
"No such thing as too early." Gurney traces his thumb across Paul's lower lip. "But I'm a mess, m'lord." He still has not had a chance to clean up from his hours of combat instruction, too impatient to see Paul safe and whole with his own eyes.
Paul nuzzles in close, eyes fluttering shut as he brushes a fleeting kiss to the corner of Gurney's mouth. "I don't mind."
"I am not getting anywhere near silk sheets when I'm still filthy from the training field." Bad enough the mess they so often make of the fine material in the course of their carnal activities. This feels somehow more disrespectful, though Gurney would be hard-pressed to explain why.
Paul growls and takes a jolting step back. Gurney has only an instant to worry he's made Paul angry, before a strong grip takes his hand and drags him across antechamber and bedroom, all the way to the door of Paul's private bath.
"Impatient whelp." Gurney grins, wide and pleased.
"Yes." Paul reaches for the clasp of Gurney's uniform jacket. "If you're going to insist on being clean before you despoil me, then get out of these damn clothes and get in the shower."
"As my lord commands," Gurney murmurs, and grins at Paul's answering blush.