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Hulkenberg hasn't been required to wake up before the sun rises in years.
It's one many things she doesn't miss from back in her days of training. Having to peel one's self out of their uncomfortable bunk before the early morning run, all the while the night sky was still overhead and the cold air yet to warm was never something she enjoyed. Back in boot camp, she'd have been expected to be up and running in a matter of minutes, but now she simply blinks up at the ceiling of her bunk in the Runner, her still sleep-addled mind catching up with her other senses.
Something's burning.
Hulkenberg doesn't panic immediately. To jump up and scream about a fire would do nothing to help, given that a quick glance out her window tells her that it is still twilight time. Her companions are sound asleep in the capsules next to her, blessed to be much heavier sleepers compared to a seasoned soldier. The smell in the air is but a smolder; whatever began burning, it only just started, maybe only minutes ago, not yet a flame but still pungent enough to waft out into the hallway.
For a moment, Hulkenberg wonders if something in this old runner finally gave out, and she'll have to go get Neuras, assuming that something breaking in his pride and joy wouldn't spring him up from slumber in itself. As she waits her limbs to wake up along with her, however, she listens closely to the sounds underneath the clicking of the runner's inner workings and the rumbling of its pipes.
She hears two voices, muffled, from the direction of the kitchen, and it all clicks together in a way that forces a frustrated sigh out of her mouth.
Hulkenberg sits up and rolls to the ladder out of her bunk in one fine motion once she feels coherent enough to stand up. True enough, from down the hallway, a bright light emanates from the doorway to the kitchen. The faint clinking of pots and pans and something sizzling in oil is barely audible.
"I'm telling you, I remember it havin' an aftertaste you can't get out of your mouth."
"More garlic, then? Could cut up less onions this time."
A sigh. "No, it needs the aromatics. We're just missing something."
They keep chatting among themselves, their voices low, as if at least somewhat self-aware that what they're doing at the time that they are is a nuisance to everyone at worst and an annoyance to just Hulkenberg at best. Her footsteps are light against creaky floorboards as she balances against the wall, walking towards the kitchen as the two remain occupied with one another.
"Are we using the right vegetables?" Strohl asks.
"I swear, these... could be the ones. Hard to say for certain, I usually picked them outta my bowl and gave them to Del," Basilio responds.
"I'm just surprised he let you be a picky eater at that point in your lives."
"Not for long! Gave me a tongue lashin' eventually. Said if I didn't eat everything on my plate, I'd be too tired to work."
"Makes sense. Speaking of tongue, maybe we should try-"
"You know," Hulkenberg interjects, causing Strohl and Basilio to jerk to awareness, turning to look at her in the doorway. "When the Captain said you were allowed to keep doing this, I believe he meant that you were allowed to do it in the evening or mornings, not at dusk."
When Strohl and Basilio cook individually, they generally keep the fact that the kitchen is a communal area in mind. They clean up as they go, making sure whatever they don't need is put away back in the pantry and cupboards. Strohl has the idea in his head that being courteous of his surroundings is a needed skill; Basilio just doesn't like being a bother.
All of this goes out the window during these little late-night, crack-of-dawn sessions where the two crowd around the stove. Bowls and plates are scattered around the counter, full of different meats, spices, and vegetables. Pots full of broth sit developing a film in the window frame to the dining room, like they had just been removed from the stove and put aside for later. Each burner on the stove was covered by a saucepan, all flames going at the same time, simmering cuts of meat in fat. On the center table, piled high, were plates and bowls with proper dishes on them; Hulkenberg could deduce which ones were Strohl's (covered in dainty bites, like he took a single one and decided it wasn't for him) and which were Basilio's (little scraps left behind, the vessel almost licked clean). The empty bags and boxes strewn about on the floor say enough for how long they've been at this, and Hulkenberg makes a mental note to tell the Captain that they need to restock on produce the next time they stop.
The two culprits in question, not even stripped down to their sleep clothes, their casual wear covered in stains and sleeves rolled up to their elbows, stare at Hulkenberg incredulously. The bags under their eyes told Hulkenberg all she needed to know.
"Sorry, Eiselin." Basilio says after a moment, reaching up to scratch behind his neck. "Did, uh... we wake you up?"
"Yes, in a way. I was roused by the scent. I was worried there was a fire, but now I see I was mistaken." Hulkenberg's gaze flickers downward to a pan on the stove searing a hodgepodge of carrots and lamb. A fine film of oil had gathered around the brim of the pot, burning brown, now beginning to properly smoke. Strohl follows her eyeline to the scene of the crime, taking a moment to process what she's talking about before he yelps, lunging forward to grab the handle and take it off the flame, turning the dial down with his free hand. Basilio follows after him, peering over his shoulder to look at the damage. Hulkenberg just sighs again, taking the moment while they're occupied to grab one of the relatively unattended bowls, seemingly recently completed by the heat it gives off. Inside is a brown, viscous broth with a strong scent, carrots and potato chunks floating in the gravy.
"Can I ask what warranted this session this time?" Hulkenberg asks, beginning to feel around the drawers for the silverware. The very least the two scoundrels could do for worrying her this early is make it up with a share of their meal. Basilio cranes his head over while Strohl tries to scrape what remains of that attempt off the metal.
"Lobscouse." Basilio answers, sidestepping Strohl and grabbing the handle of a different pan, shaking up the contents. The chunks of onions and garlic sizzle and pop in the oil as they're shuffled and land back down.
"Lobscouse?"
"It's a kind of stew," Strohl chimes in, standing back up to his full height. A yawn wracks through his body and he opens his jaw slowly, all cat-like, before closing his mouth and smacking his lips. "I think they just called it lobby in the town we were just in?"
"Yeah, they did, everyone makes it everywhere, you see." Basilio stretches his arms up over his head as he moves back, making a reach over Strohl beginning to cut up more carrots to replace the ones lost to grab one of the pots full of broth. "The one we had back there, really damn good, what I could get of it. But I got a bug in my brain earlier, and I remembered-"
"He had a different version of it in a different city when he was young," Strohl finishes his sentence, and Hulkenberg feels a pang of concern when she notices that he's talking and handling a knife at the same time when he's so obviously beginning to feel the effects of not sleeping all night. "And that's what we're trying to make. Issue is he hasn't had it in forever, everyone makes it differently, and then there's a matter of making it strong enough that he can actually taste it."
The two of them just keep working as they talk, beginning to fall right back into the debate Eiselin walked in on, about proper ingredients. Basilio's busy stirring a new batch of lamb and beef and cabbage into the soup base, debating with Strohl on the ratio of salt to chili powder, a debate that Strohl is already losing right out of the gate, as his low spice tolerance pales in comparison to Basilio's need for flavors with strong kicks.
Hulkenberg just stands in the center of the room, watching the two talk and work in tandem. When Basilio takes a step to the side, a spring in his movement, far more awake than Strohl is, Strohl still moves to take up the space he leaves behind. When they focus on the task at hand, Eiselin notices no scent of smoke in the air anymore, replaced with the savory aroma of stir fry and soup. When she finally manages to stab a fork into the beef in her bowl, taking a bite of soup-soaked meat, her eyes widen at the punch to her nose and tastebuds; it's an overwhelming, rich taste to a woman still in the process of waking up. It's so rich she can only manage to swallow one bite, lest she get nauseous from how filling it seems. If this isn't close to what Basilio is looking for, she can only imagine the profile of what his objective is like.
"If I may interject," she says eventually, and Strohl jumps again, like he forgot she was there in his concentration and conversation. "I still recommend that you both get some sleep. If you wake up early enough, you can clean up before Neuras sees what you've made of his kitchen."
Basilio just gives a cheeky smile. "Ah, we'll be done soon. Just a few more goes, I swear on it. We're onto somethin', I don't wanna lose it."
Strohl murmurs something then, and Basilio snaps to attention, watching as Strohl takes one of the many tasting spoons strewn around and dips it into the pot they're crowded around, bringing up a portion for Basilio to try. As Basilio's eyes light up at the result, turning away to try and think of what little left is missing, Strohl glances at Hulkenberg, tired eyes contrasted against a soft smile.
"We're almost done, truly. I just want this to come out perfect for him."
Hulkenberg hums, unable to truly fault him for saying such. "I think I'll turn in then. Just be more careful next time, will you?"
Really, Hulkenberg can't bring herself to really be genuinely frustrated with this now-common occurrence. It's not like this behavior is unprecedented, and it's far from the first time they had done this. Truthfully, the last time this kind of flash of brilliance and nostalgia had struck the two, it had been Strohl instigating the cooking session, dragging Basilio out of bed as the sun set, yammering about finally remembering an old dish from his childhood, one that he thought he would never be able to try again until he had found a variation from the local tavern and he just needed some help to deduce what had been swapped out.
He had needed help recreating a type of cuisine from the Halia region.
She supposes they have a matching wavelength going in their relationship, then. Similar ideas bouncing back and forth between their minds, a type of dance that they're only able to truly perform in these quiet, dark nights, where everyone is asleep and it's just them trying new things with one another. A bonding exercise to which they exchange important memories and ideas, doing their best to recreate old comforts for no other reason than they can, and in these dark nights the motivation strikes randomly, like a static shock that's only triggered upon close contact.
As such, she isn't surprised when later in the day, when she's had her proper night's rest and walks back to the kitchen, she finds the two curled around each other instead of in their beds. The kitchen still uncleaned, the food had all been eaten, and a sweet scent lingering in the air as a reminder of their strange, intimate ritual.