Work Text:
It’s past midnight when Paul gives up on arguing with the hotel receptionist, accepting that he simply won’t be getting a room for the night.
Technically he has the money to afford another hotel, but he doesn’t have the first clue where to go, besides – it’s not exactly ideal that he’s currently wearing a full Starfleet uniform.
He settles for the very unproductive plan of getting drunk, or well, at least slightly buzzed.
The hotel bar is thankfully scarce of guests, and Paul beelines for the bartender, as if sheer speed could keep people from noticing the state of his dress. However, he slows his approach when he catches sight of the man seated at the corner of the bar counter.
Salt and pepper hair in a close buzz cut, and a neatly styled beard that accentuates a sharp jawline. It’s the kind of haircut that takes effort to maintain, and Paul finds himself wondering whether the man does it himself, or if he has a standing appointment with a barber back home – wherever home is for a suit-clad silver fox who lingers in the hotel bar of a convention centre on a goddamn Thursday.
Because, yeah; the man is in an actual suit, like he’s someone important. A tailored blazer and pants made out of a deep blue linen fabric, the cut of it probably intended to be modest – made less so by how it strains over broad shoulders, the swell of his biceps. Paul has rarely seen men like this in real life, and he has certainly not seen them in flattering, tailored clothing at a candle-lit bar.
There’s a glass of amber liquor by the man’s side – forgotten, by the looks of how much the ice has melted – and a notebook on the counter in front of him.
In company like this, Paul would feel underdressed even if he wasn’t in the unfortunate circumstance of wearing the velvety, blue uniform – and carrying an accompanying tricorder, to boot.
Never mind; he needs a drink, a gameplan, and maybe ten minutes to just feel miserable and hate his life. By the looks of it, the silver fox won’t even pay attention to him.
He lives in this fantasy for long enough to grab a seat at the bar, order a rum and coke – after spending an embarrassingly long time considering splurging just to get something a bit more mature, a nice brew, or something – and spend maybe five minutes lamenting his sad existence, and then…
“Are you dressed as a Science Officer?”
Paul blinks a couple of times, snapping out of his pity party. When he looks up from his glass of all-too expensive cocktail, he finds himself being watched by the handsome man from across the bar.
This is why he didn’t want to hang out with normal people while in costume. Jesus christ; he’d kill for a change of clothes and a hot shower.
Still.
This doesn’t sound like mockery. In fact, the man has kind eyes – a deep hazel, warm in the candle-light – and there’s a small smile on his lips; something almost shy, like he can’t quite believe he’s asked Paul the question in the first place.
More importantly, that deliciously rough voice didn’t ask if he was dressed up “as a Star Wars”, or something equally clueless. He specifically said “science officer”.
“Sure is, Captain.”
The man chuckles, looking down at his notebook for a moment, smile widening, before those curious eyes find Paul once more.
“Any particular occasion, or…?”
Paul shrugs, stirring his drink with a straw, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. “Work. Can’t say much else – prime directive, and all that.”
“Ah”, the man says, nodding, a twinkle in his eyes now. “One last drink before they beam you up?”
It’s hard to keep from laughing, and Paul bites at his bottom lip, because he does feel sort of like a dork for finding this charming.
“Something like that.”
“Well then, pleased to meet you, Officer”, the man says, leaning forward to offer his hand. The distance between them is enough that they can barely reach each other, but Paul happily slides to the edge of his barstool to take that hand in his.
He’s not prepared for what it would feel like.
In this quiet moment, where they have yet to introduce themselves, it’s like something passes between them; a sense of recognition beyond words.
The man’s grip is steady, his palm smooth but the fingers calloused. Despite the clear strength there, he holds Paul ever so gently, and his fingertips rest just on the pulse point of Paul’s wrist.
“I’m Gurney”, the man says, the smile still present, but the ease with which he’s spoken up until now has slipped into something more mindful – like whatever Paul imagined passed between them just now, perhaps wasn’t so imagined after all. “Gurney Halleck.”
“Paul Atreides.”
Paul finds his voice almost breathless, and he can’t make himself let go of Gurney’s hand, so he says whatever comes to mind and… “Of the USS Enterprise. Here to go where no man has gone before.”
He might be cringing on the inside, but the comment has Gurney burst into laughter – bright and loud – the crinkles at the corner of his eyes fanning out and transforming his entire expression into something warm, inviting.
When Gurney let’s go of Paul’s hand, it’s only to grab his things – the notebook and the watered-down drink – and move a couple of seats closer, leaving one barstool between them.
“So”, he says, the delicious dark purr of his voice making Paul shiver. “Starfleet considers this hotel worth investigating over-night?”
“Oh, no – Command unfortunately messed up the bookings”, and even though Paul intends to lean into his annoyance from before, he fails to be anything but upbeat now that he’s the sole focus of that hazel gaze.
Paul’s reply manages to coax another smile from Gurney, and while he doesn’t reply immediately, he seems completely at ease, even in this lull in conversation.
Normally, this is when Paul would think of something obnoxious to say, just to make sure to steer the conversation away from anything that could be too flirtatious. However, Gurney doesn’t look at him with sharp, burning desire; those warm eyes hold a very different gleam, and Paul isn’t even sure how long they simply look at each other.
He is, however, growing all the more aware of the fact that it’s just the two of them in this bar, and that they have an audience of one on the other side of the counter. He sips his drink, trying not to let his self-consciousness get the best of him, and then – finally – he realizes that there’s a very obvious, very safe topic of conversation that he could go for.
“How did you get into Trek? I mean – assuming that you are into Trek.”
Sitting this close, the dimples of Gurney’s smile are distinct even through the stubble, and his eyes wellnigh twinkle.
“My sister loved The Original Series. I just sort of grew up with it always being on the TV, and one day I guess I actually sat down with her and watched it proper. All it took was one episode, and then I was quite enamoured with it.”
“Wow”, and Paul is glad that he sounds pathetically in awe of the story, because otherwise his reaction would probably come across as sarcastic. “Like, was this when it was still airing?”
Gurney’s laughter is loud and rich, and when he takes a long sip from his watered-down drink – still chuckling to himself – he doesn’t break eye-contact with Paul. “How old do you think I am, Mister Science Officer?”
“Hey, give me a break”, Paul mutters, averting his eyes for only a few seconds before feeling compelled to look back at Gurney. “I’ve had a long day, old man.”
“Tell me about it.”
The worst part is that Gurney seems genuinely interested, and only now, that he’s been invited to actually complain about his misfortune, does Paul feel like his problems might not be that interesting in the grand scheme of things.
“Oh, well… I spent the day at the Sci-Fi convention with some friends, and they headed home this evening. I was intending to stay for a panel tomorrow, but something went wrong with my booking and well – now I don’t have a room. Even worse, I left my bag in my friend’s car, so I’m stuck in uniform. I would kill for a change of clothes – and a shower.”
“If it makes you feel any better – the uniform suits you”, Gurney offers, but while his voice is gentle, his eyes are narrowed, thoughtful.
Paul can’t help the laugh that escapes him, because after months of putting this damn outfit together, he’s all too aware of how it makes him look like a stick-figure more than anything else. “If you say so.”
“I do”, Gurney says, but then he clears his throat, making a show of changing the subject. “How did you get into Trek?”
Paul shrugs, going for relaxed, while trying not to be too distracted by the bright warmth that has ignited in his chest. “I found it as a teen and it just… felt like home. Like, not to be cheesy, but it helped me figure myself out. Not only the actual shows and movies, but the community around it, you know?”
“Mmm, email lists, zines, been there done that…” Gurney trails off. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then he raises an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in his eyes now. “And the fanfiction, of course.”
If Paul was less tired, and if he wasn’t slightly buzzed from the alcohol, he might have been able to show some restraint, but now – his lips actually fall open, and his obvious surprise has Gurney give a warm, inviting chuckle.
“Think I’m too old for that?”
Paul snorts a laugh. “Hey – there are many things I’d let you to put in my mouth, but words aren’t one of them. I’m sure you read plenty of fanfic.”
For a moment, Gurney sits in silence, his gaze intent as he purses his lips in thought.
“You’re not wrong. I can’t say I actively seek it out these days, but there sure are some stories that stuck with me.”
“I know right?” And Paul wishes he could blame the alcohol for his giddiness, but fact is that it’s been a long time since he had someone to talk about this with. While he has friends who watch the shows; read the books; argue about the movies; few of them are particularly interested in his hobby of digging through old websites in search for early fic and zine scans. “God, there was actually this one fic that was so formative for me. It’s not like it’s a fandom classic or anything, so – I guess it might be pointless talking about it…”
But he’s barely had the chance to talk himself out of what is bound to be a hopeless spiral of oversharing, when Gurney interrupts him.
“No, go ahead”, he says, an encouraging smile on his lips, and his sincerity is all it takes.
Paul launches into the tale of when he found an old livejournal community, and how it led him down a rabbit hole to one of the best stories he’s ever read.
However, the more he dives into the actual plot of the thing, the more he starts doubting his ability to recount it, because; perhaps it’s not the plot that matters as much as how it made him feel. Perhaps the thing he finds so spellbinding about this story, is how reading it was akin to looking into a mirror.
Still, he does his best to describe how the story follows Kirk and Spock during the five-year mission, and stays with them up until Spock’s death and his eventual return. The slow progression of a relationship that neither character seems to be able to put words to.
He describes way the author portrays the easy, platonic intimacy that gets complicated the second they overthink it. The affection and care that comes easy, until they attempt to contextualize it into any established framework for a relationship, and… and the longer he talks, the wider Gurney’s eyes get – the smile gone from his lips now.
Paul falls silent, taking in the state of him, and when Gurney doesn’t immediately react to the fact that Paul has stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, he reminds himself that there’s no need to panic – that as far as he knows, he hasn’t done anything wrong – and then he leans forward, seeking Gurney’s gaze, doing his best to keep his voice even. “What’s up?”
Gurney puts his drinks to his lips, hesitating for only a moment before throwing back what’s left of it. “You’re talking about ‘Where no man has followed’, right?”
Paul blinks a couple of times, because while he does love this story, he didn’t even remember the full title until Gurney said it. “Yeah. Have you read it?”
Gurney sucks in a deep breath, and his laughter is unsteady – almost nervous. “I wrote it.”
“You… what?”
Instead of elaborating, Gurney simply nods, and in the silence that follows, they just stare at each-other. If it wasn’t for how Gurney seems so rattled, Paul would’ve assumed this was some sort of joke. Now he has to somehow look normal while adjusting to this, well – this revelation.
“Why did you describe it as ‘formative’?” Gurney asks, eventually, and his voice is soft with curiosity – almost shy.
“The characters”, Paul replies, practically stumbling over the words. “I hadn’t seen anyone approach their relationship through that lens before. There are so many great stories that delve into why they took so long to act on their feelings, whether it was cultural differences or self-image or family stuff, and you just… you just come along and say; the reason they had a hard time figuring out what they were to each other, was because they desired the other so deeply, but without there being a sexual element to it. It worked so well, and just – I guess I hadn’t seen myself in a story before, so it really got to me. This slow burn of two people being so helplessly devoted to each other, needing decades to finally discover enough about themselves to make sense of their relationship? It’s beautiful.”
When Paul falls silent, he cannot help but think that this reminds him of presenting a thesis for his favorite professor back in the day – praying that even if he’s wrong, his thoughts will at least be compelling.
There’s a beat when Gurney just stares at him, and then he shakes his head, letting out a small, shaky laugh.
“Sorry”, Paul starts, his voice strained as he tries to reign in the nervous energy that’s strumming through him now. “Was that too much?”
“No, heavens no”, and while Gurney’s reply is immediate, he then falls silent, clearly needing more time to think through his answer. “This is just… extraordinary. I wrote that almost two decades ago. It was an exercise in figuring myself out, I suppose, and I normally do not write things so close to my own experience. I had no intention of posting it.”
“What changed?”
Gurney shrugs, but he seems more relaxed now, a fond warmth in his voice. “A friend convinced me to post it online.”
And well, Paul has never actually been good at reading these types of things, so he figures that the only way he’ll know how to proceed from here on out is to just ask (and try to keep any disappointment from his voice).
“And this friend of yours, he’s…?”
Paul trails off, because surely this should be open enough to leave Gurney space to confirm or deny the assumption, but Gurney just stares at him, perplexed. “He’s what?”
“You’re an item?”
For a moment, Gurney sits in silence, like the words don’t make sense to him at all, and then those crinkles are back at the corner of his eyes, and his laughter is delightfully bright.
“God no – never in a million years. I am perpetually single.”
Paul must be gawking, but he doesn’t even feel self-conscious about it because – come on.
“How?”
“I don’t know”, Gurney says, shrugging, his body language casual, but the gleam is his eyes is anything but. “How does someone like you find yourself in a place like this, without someone to sleep with?”
Paul doesn’t give his reply much thought, deciding to be brave – reckless, even. “Am I, though?”
Gurney doesn’t seem entirely surprised by his audacity, but he clearly takes some time to think through his reply.
“My room isn’t luxurious at all – work handled all the logistics. It can barely hold a suitcase.”
Paul spreads his arms, throwing a look down his skinny frame. “I don’t take up much space.”
The comment has Gurney snort a laugh, and when he rolls his eyes it’s with fond exasperation. “Well, you got me there.”
Gurney only hesitates for another moment, before he gets up from his chair and leads the way to the elevator. It doesn’t even feel weird or intrusive following him to his room – it feels like Paul has been on this path since he stepped into the hotel bar almost two hours ago.
It turns out that Gurney wasn’t exaggerating; the room is small, with a full-size bed, and not much else. The room has a small balcony with two chairs and a small table, and it’s high enough into the building to have a fantastic view of the city.
Gurney makes his way across the room, crouching down on the floor to dig through his suitcase.
“You said you’d kill for a shower, right?”
Paul snorts, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Are you challenging me to kal-if-fee?”
Gurney bursts out laughing so hard that he nearly keels over, and Paul is caught off guard by the pride he feels at making him laugh so easily.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Gurney gives him a long look. “Not sure where you’d expect us to fight. All we’ve got is the bed.”
Paul nods solemnly, biting at his bottom lip not to crack up. “Very true.”
“No need for battle, though”, Gurney says, and when he returns to Paul, he’s holding a folded-up t-shirt in his hands. “The bathroom is all yours, and – here’s something to change into, if you want.”
Paul actually gasps, taken aback by the kindness – not knowing at all how to properly accept it, or how to show his gratitude.
The worn-out fabric is soft to the touch, and he runs his thumb over it a few times before looking up at Gurney, hoping that the smile on his lips conveys what words cannot. “Thank you so fucking much. I could actually kiss you.”
“It is the least I could do”, Gurney says, as if Paul has done anything for him that should be returned with such kind-heartedness. Then he reaches out, ruffling Paul’s hair. It only lasts for a brief moment, but it’s the first time they’ve touched since they shook hands, and if anything, it’s even more overwhelming this time; leaving Paul wanting to chase the warmth of Gurney’s touch, until he can feel those hands on his skin once more.
He's caught between feeling like he’s known Gurney forever – in a way he has, at least through his writing – and being painfully aware of the fact that they’ve only spent a couple of hours together. It’s hard to figure out what he’s allowed to do; what Gurney would welcome, and how far Paul could allow himself to go.
Thankfully, he does have the excuse of escaping into the bathroom, hoping that some time spent alone will hopefully clear his mind.
Paul can’t remember the last time a shower felt this invigorating. After spending the entire day on his feet, socializing, the hot water is a relief for his aching muscles. He’s grateful that they’re at a hotel, because otherwise he would feel bad about lingering beneath the spray long after he’s rinsed the shampoo from his hair, and the soap from his skin. As he exits the shower, he nearly staggers, simply from the contrast of the hot water and the cool, dry hotel air.
Looking in the mirror, he finds that his hair has settled into soft curls around his face – bound to be frizzy once its dried – and when he slips Gurney’s shirt over his head, it feels like slipping into comfy pyjamas.
Paul folds up his costume, exiting the bathroom only wearing the t-shirt and his underwear. At first, he assumes the room feels chilly because of how little he’s wearing, but then he realizes that the balcony door is open.
Gurney is sat out there, now wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. For a moment, Paul just takes in the sight of him; the sharp profile painted with the neon of the city; the muscular frame clad in soft cotton. With such a small space for the two of them to share, it’s clear that Gurney has positioned himself as far away from the bed as possible, allowing Paul the space to take command of what happens next.
And well, Paul feels perfectly happy to do just that. He puts his uniform down on the desk, and jumps into bed like he hasn’t done since he was a kid. The mattress is hard, bouncy, and once he’s landed, he curls up on one side of it, neither hogging the pillow nor the duvet.
It’s enough to catch Gurney’s attention, and once that hazel gaze has found him, Paul waves, beckoning him inside.
Gurney gets into bed much more gracefully, a thoughtful precision to how he lies down on his side, facing Paul, while ensuring there’s still a few inches of space separating them.
The stillness that follows is palpable, and just this simple act of looking at each other feels like an embrace of its own.
After a moment, Gurney shakes his head, averting his eyes as he chuckles to himself, and the low rumble of his laughter is enough to have Paul grin.
“What are you laughing about?”
Gurney let’s out a huff, doing his best to shrug even though the mattress suppresses most of the movement, and when he meets Paul’s eyes this time he’s smiling so brightly, those deep laughter lines fanning out at the corner of his eyes. “You, me – this is not how I expected my work trip to go.”
Paul hums, shuffling closer. “Fair. This is hilarious.”
His reply has Gurney snort another laugh, and his gaze is trailing down Paul’s body now, an almost hyper-awareness there in how little it would take for them to touch.
In the grand scheme of things, this shouldn’t be brave, but it sure as hell feels like a leap of fate when Paul clears his throat and says; “I should warn you, by the way. I’m a cuddler.”
Gurney looks at him for a long time, clearly having some inner debate, but when he finally speaks there’s not a hint of hesitation to his voice. “I don’t have a problem with that.”
When Paul closes the distance between them, draping himself over Gurney’s chest, it doesn’t escape him how the both of them sigh contently at the contact.
With all the brief touches they’ve shared through the night, Paul all but expects this to be a shock to his system – a goddamn lightning strike – but; as he rests his head on Gurney’s shoulder, nuzzling in close; breathing in a scent of pine trees, heady spices and Gurney; it’s like sinking into the ocean. It’s like swimming beneath the surface and emerging to a deep, full breath of fresh air.
Paul isn’t sure he’s ever felt such a deep-seated sense of comfort, and his mind is racing trying to memorize all the little things; the rise and fall of Gurney’s chest; the hard muscle of his arms, his abs, and the softness of his touch; how Paul can no longer tell their heartbeats apart.
First, Gurney’s hand comes to rest over his shoulder blades, and the fabric of the borrowed t-shirt is so thin that Paul shivers from this alone. Then, slowly, that hand travels upward, trailing along Paul’s spine to the nape of his neck, the heat of his touch overwhelming now when it’s against Paul’s bare skin. All he can do is inch even closer, until their legs are tangled, and there’s not a part of him that isn’t touching Gurney.
Paul lets out a soft sigh, feeling grounded, his limbs heavy – surprised at how easy sleep has come for him. Normally, he will lie awake for hours, or have to tire himself out in order to sleep. Now, he struggles to keep his eyes open, and for a drawn-out moment he clings to consciousness, needing just a few more minutes of breathing in tandem with Gurney; of being held like softness is something he deserves; of indulging in this bizarre dream.
Because, what could he possibly hope to wake up to? Paul is leaving the city tomorrow night, and Gurney is clearly here on a short business trip. It’s like the universe has designed this wonderful thing for him, specifically only to snatch it away.
Paul blinks his eyes open again and again, and he listens to Gurney’s even breathing, and he clings to him tight enough that it should wake Gurney, and none of it can keep him from drifting off.
Paul doesn’t wake to alarms, and he doesn’t wake to Gurney rushing him out of the room.
He wakes slowly, leisurely, curling up to hug the soft sheets to his chest, sighing contently. The room is bright, the sun high in the sky, and Paul is squinting his eyes to be able to see anything at all, still dazed from sleep as he surveys the room. For a moment, he’s overcome with worry that Gurney has actually left him here, because the room isn’t big enough to hide a grown man, but then…
Paul finds him on the balcony.
Gurney is still dressed in the t-shirt he slept in, but he has paired it with loose-fitting gym shorts. He’s got a notebook spread on the table, hand moving slowly with what can only be precise cursive, and he’s bathed in sunlight; the stubble on his chin a bright silver.
If Paul has ever before thought of another person as “gorgeous”, he can’t remember. It’s a word he has usually reserved for fictional crushes – people he can safely get infatuated with from afar.
Now, he finds himself watching Gurney for a long time, so fully awake and enthralled that he could never dream of snoozing. Only when Gurney pauses his writing and looks up from his book, only when the crinkles at the corner of Gurney’s eyes fan out with a warm smile, does Paul find himself averting his eyes.
Embarrassingly enough, he hides his face in his pillow for a moment, desperately seeking refuge from the softness in his chest. Even as he’s hiding, he can hear the chair scrape over the balcony floor as Gurney gets up; he can count the steps as Gurney walks across the room, and then the mattress dips as Gurney sits down at the corner of the bed.
“Morning.”
Paul let’s out a huff into the pillow, doing his best to steady himself, and then he peeks up at Gurney. “Morning, Captain.”
He’s met with another one of those bright smiles, and Paul is definitely too dazed for this, because he already feels seconds from melting. In silence, he watches as Gurney lowers himself onto the mattress, lying on his side so that they can look at each other.
“When are they beaming you up, Officer?”
The question catches him so off-guard that Paul snorts out a very undignified laugh.
“Oh, I… belayed that.” Paul pauses, his gaze trailing down, not really looking at Gurney as much as the inches that still separates them. “I’ll only be in town for another day and, well – I don’t know what your plans are, but I’d very much like to spend it with you.”
“My plans should allow for that”, Gurney says, and while his voice is almost shy, it’s accompanied by a gleaming smile that reaches his eyes. “I almost didn’t expect you to still be here. It seemed too surreal.”
Paul doesn’t know what to say, finding himself smiling helplessly – because it’s better than admitting that he half expected to wake up on a bench in the hotel lobby, having dreamed the entire thing – and then he gestures with one of his arms, making a half-assed attempt at giving himself a dramatic pose.
“Ta-daa. You still have me.”
Gurney chuckles, one of his hands coming up to cup Paul’s face, the touch warm like sunlight. “I guess I do.”