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It's a dusty, greying Sunday morning when Sunny decides to wake up early.
Mind you, her version of early is early early. She hasn't told Uncle Hal or Uncle Dave this yet, but she always finds herself, no matter what time she heads to bed, wide-awake by three in the morning. Sometimes there is a ringing by her ears too, persistent and noisy and it hurts, but then it dissipates after a while. She hasn't told any of them, but only because she doesn't want them to worry—when Uncle Hal worries he gets this little crease on his forehead and he's got enough on his plate (that's what Uncle Dave tells her) so she mainly keeps it to herself. It doesn't take her too long to fall asleep after that, anyway, so it's largely okay.
But her goal isn't to go back to sleep this time, though. It's a Sunday, the first few of the year (or so the calendar balanced above their dining table says. Sunny hasn't actually seen either Hal or Dave move it around much) and she decided, albeit hastily the night before, that she would wake up and make something special for them.
And so Sunny quietly peels away her covers and wobbily sets her feet on the ground, before padding over to the kitchen. It's still early enough that the sun hasn't quite come out yet; it's a hazy mixture of early dawn and dew outside the NOMAD, but it's cool enough for the room to feel not so stuffy.
It's a habitual response now, as she approaches the trusty stove and switches it on, watching the flare of a blue flame. She knows, instinctively, what goes where—it’s a bit of a struggle at first to uncap the bottle of oil, but once she's got it down everything is pretty smooth-sailing from there. She decides to make them each a sunny side up, but with a twist, said twist being that on one of their recent trips back down Hal managed to acquire some string cheese so she'll sprinkle some of that too.
Sunny tiptoes around the sink, gently peeling the wrapper off, before moving to separate the cheese into segments. It's almost fun, the way it splits so easily down the middle, that Sunny forgets herself for a bit, until she realises she has shredded a bit too much cheese and she probably should save it for their next special meal.
Their special meals together are one of her favourite things, especially since recently Uncle Dave was getting out of bed less and less. Sometimes he'd stay in there for a whole day, and Uncle Hal would emerge, looking sad, but then he'd scoot her away and say something about making them lunch, but even then Sunny knew he would spend it moping.
It was harder for her to catch Uncle Dave being sad, but it wasn't entirely rare. He grumbled a lot too, though, about his knees or his back, but he'd still try to lift Sunny when he could, which was nice. But she tries to avoid it too, because she knows it's probably not good for him either.
There's the sizzle of the egg as it hits the pan and into the hot oil, the clear egg white immediately solidifying into a white disc. Sunny remembers to add the cheese when the egg’s done halfway, and with a bit of seasoning it starts to smell really delicious. She's careful to not overcook it, otherwise it becomes charred around the edges and then nobody wants to eat it and she'll have to make a new batch.
Once this egg is done, she repeats the process for the next few.
These kinds of repetitive habits—they’re comforting to her. Sunny can't quite explain it, but just having something to do, on and on, without a break in the pattern, is good. It's nice, having a process that provides you with the same outcome every other time. There's the strike of the eggshell against her fingers, the plastic grip of the teflon pan against her palm—comforting textures she likes.
And anyway, it's much better than whatever she had before this. Sometimes Uncle Hal asks if she remembers anything when she was a kid, and she thinks about it for a bit and says not much. And then he gets that weird look on his face and stops asking, and Sunny knows it's because he thinks it's a sensitive topic to broach, but she's being truthful. She doesn't remember anything concrete enough.
Sometimes a few memories break loose of that web, though. The first few times Uncle Dave held her shoulder, she'd suddenly remembered another weird detail—a latex, gloves hand around her bicep, yanking and digging—and she'd jerked back so suddenly he immediately let go of her and asked what happened.
Or she'd remember this feeling of a hand over the back of her neck, holding her in place, but then she'd blink and the feeling would be gone. It took her a while to understand that not all touch was bad, after that, but it took a while. Uncle Dave, particularly, was very on-board with that; he'd kept a sharp eye out for her progress there.
But then it got better, as most things did, in the end, so Sunny guesses that she's alright now. She's content with just this, for now; making her eggs over the little stove in the NOMAD, tippy-toed over the counter, watching oil and cheese sizzle.
Once the eggs are done, she scoops them onto plates, three separate ones for each of them, and sets them down on the dining table, then she stands back and looks at them, fists on her hips. It looks good, she's proud of that. She's come a long way from her days of making burnt toast and eggs, that's for sure.
She's just missing the most important thing: the people at the table. So Sunny shuffles out of the kitchen and towards Uncle Hal and Dave's bedroom. She's not sure if they're still asleep—these days they tend to stay in a bit more; but once she nears their door she hears some murmurs, so she carefully pushes their door open.
Normally if Uncle Hal and Dave kept their door locked that meant that they'd prefer her to knock, but for the most part they leave it unlocked so she can wander in if she wants to. It's nice when they do that, because then she can crawl into their bed in the morning for hugs and feel Uncle Dave's stubble against her forehead, which always makes her laugh.
There's a sliver of light falling across the room when Sunny swings the door open. She's not loud, but she's not quiet either, so it's surprising when neither of them hear or notice her across the room.
The sight makes her pause a bit. Uncle Dave is lying down, eyes closed and blanket over his chest, while Uncle Hal is sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. He's already got his glasses on, though they're perched on his head, and he's got a hand running through Uncle Dave's hair. It's all salt-and-pepper now, though mostly grey than white or brown, which Sunny can tell Uncle Hal is thinking about when he pauses for a bit.
Then Uncle Dave cracks an eye open and says something, his voice still raspy with sleep, and Uncle Hal promptly bursts into laughter, dragging his hand across his face. There's almost the smell of eggs drifting across the room now, but if they notice it, they don't let on.
Uncle Hal now moves to push his glasses further back up his head, and to lean down to kiss Uncle Dave. This is typically the part where Sunny will make some sound of disgust and slam her fingers over her eyes, but it's a quick peck this time—gentle, and smilingly, but it's fast. Uncle Dave doesn't refuse or pull away either, kissing him back. He makes another comment, that causes Uncle Hal to roll his eyes back at him. Sunny wonders if they know that they look silly.
But what catches Sunny's eye, more importantly, is the sight of their hands. How Uncle Dave's hand rests gently atop a pillow right beside Uncle Hal’s. There's no contact between them, save for the slide of a pinkie over Uncle Hal's thumb. And somehow that's it; it's just barely touching Hal's, like it's perfectly content to rest there and to just be near, nothing more. That, and how open Uncle Hal's face looked; split with a smile, warm and adoring, so at peace with everything else. Their eyes meet, which causes Uncle Dave's eyes to soften once more. His eyes look more blue when he does that.
There's no need for grand gestures here, Sunny knows. Both of them are comfortable with this; coexisting around and with each other, each surrounding and occupying a space while simultaneously moving towards each other.
Sunny thinks about that. That simple hand gesture; the use of hands in their lives. Sunny, with the hands that restricted her, to her hands that now cradle eggs against pans. Uncle Dave, and his scarred, calloused finger tips that brush against Uncle Hal's now. Hands that Sunny has seen wielding knives, and guns; blood-stained hands that she'd seen him give a grunt of exertion when scrubbing. And Uncle Hal's hands; pale and slender with varicose veins from periods of extended use over computer keys, hands that have gripped Uncle Dave's as he walked, that now lie, palm up, open and vulnerable, with blue veins dancing across. Hands hardened with violence, Sunny considers, that softened with love.
She takes a look back at them, then at the kitchen where their plates of eggs sit, then back at them again. They look…content. She can't really remember the last time they've been like this. Comfortable with silence and early mornings, where Uncle Hal isn't worrying about Uncle Dave. Or where Uncle Dave isn't all grouchy and upset.
She waits for Uncle Hal to move in for one more kiss, before shuffling further in the room. They look up at her, neither one looking too surprised, still smiling, subdued and calm. Like they'd been expecting her. Uncle Dave cocks a head, while Uncle Hal lifts an arm in reply.
And, she notes, there's a space right between them, empty and inviting, as if they'd prepared it just for her.
“Uncle Hal? Uncle Dave? Breakfast's ready.”