Chapter Text
Gurney has done this dozens of times before. Him and Duncan have taken turns guarding Paul when he’s gone off-planet, and they’ve perfected it to an artform. They have slept by his door, on the floor, or even shared his bed should the necessity arise.
They’ve learned how to ensure that the stress of potential threats doesn’t affect the young heir. It’s all in the job, and Gurney’s a man who lives to serve.
On this particular occasion, Gurney is sharing Paul’s bed.
House Atreides have sent a small envoy to a planet far from home. The House they’re visiting is much lower in standing, and honored to have them as guests. While Thufir Hawat has indicated that it should be a very safe ordeal, the fact that they expect it to be harmless, could be a risk in itself.
Gurney has learned to search every shadow for danger, knowing all to well how easy it is to poison something beautiful. The small city they’re staying in seems just as safe as promised, but it would be an easy target, and on Leto’s orders, Gurney is stationed in Paul’s room.
It’s been an easy stay.
They are, after all, used to this.
Paul has been fairly conversational – happy to have company, rather than having to stay in a foreign place all on his own – and on their first night here, they ended up talking long into the night, despite Gurney’s best intentions.
Normally, it’s quite hard to refuse the heir anything, but in the daytime, it’s still possible for Gurney to steel himself and ensure that his lessons are taught in a proper manner. That he keeps some sense of separation between friendship and mentorship, and when the two shouldn’t intersect.
However, it is a different thing at night, when they’re both lying on the same soft mattress, staring up at the same ceiling – this time a display of intricate, artful woodcarving, depicting a springtime forest – and it’s impossible to think of it as anything but something friendly, maybe even intimate.
Gurney is muttering about how the bed is much too soft for his liking, and how he’s bound to wake up to aching muscles in the morning, and Paul chuckles at his foul mood, turning to face him.
“Half the time I suspect you make up these aches and pains, old man.”
Gurney snorts at the accusation, facing him in turn. “And why would I do that?”
“To have something to grumble about.”
Paul says it with a wide grin, and his eyes gaze darts down to Gurney’s hands for but a second – as if he’s convinced that Gurney will attempt to cuff him on the back of the head, even with how they’re positioned.
“You’re enough of a pain that I will never feel the need to resort to figments of my imaginations, my lord.”
Paul scrunches his eyebrows together, his lips falling open in shock that he clearly plays up for laughs. “That’s rude!”
Gurney smiles, bowing his head in a gentle nod, and Paul clearly has to make an effort not to burst out laughing.
While he doesn’t keep track of the time, they must stay up for hours talking past that point. For a while, Gurney can see the full moon through the room’s only window, but by the time they settle down for sleep, the night is nothing but a velvet dark, the moon having wandered out of view.
In the morning, it’s a slow start for the both of them, and although Paul is notorious for oversleeping, Gurney has quite the opposite reputation. Hopefully, his absence in the early hours of the day will be seen as him taking his responsibilities seriously, rather than a lapse of judgement.
They get ready mostly in silence, as even this is a routine that they have shared many times before, and managed to make very efficient; even without words. After Gurney buttons his pants, Paul hands him his belt. When Paul searches frantically for his white shirt – having thrown it on the white sheets of the bed and immediately lost sight of it – Gurney gets it for him, and politely refrains from commenting on it.
He's running through his schedule for the day, absentmindedly staring at the small wardrobe that he’s brought for the occasion, when he’s brought out of his thoughts by Paul clearing his throat.
“I don’t actually think you make it up, you know?”
Gurney blinks at him, trying to catch up. His mind has been miles away, already preparing for the banquet that is planned for this evening, and if Paul has said something else before now, he simply did not hear it.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Paul is standing right by the window, the sun casting him in a sharp light that accentuates the lines of his face, his jawline, his nose, and catches in his hair like silken gold.
When Gurney doesn’t reply, Paul nods at him, and only then does Gurney realize that he’s still shirtless, giving a full view of the scars he has collected in his lifetime.
He swallows thickly, hoping that the smile he offers is reassuring, and doesn’t give away too much of the brightness that surges in his chest. “Of course, sire. I know.”
Paul seems relieved at his reply, giving a small smile in turn, before he heads to the door. Apparently, he’s impatient now that he has managed to get ready ahead of Gurney – because when are things not a competition between the two of them? When are they not engaged in this back-and-forth of play?
As Gurney shrugs on his shirt, pulling it over his head, he still feels Paul’s gaze on his bare skin, even when he doesn’t actually see him.