In the days following Greg’s departure from the Mayhew’s life, Peter experienced a depression of sorts. He wasn’t sad, necessarily. He was just listless, unsatisfied with the hobbies and obsessions that had once given him purpose. He’d experienced something like this before, usually between one obsession losing his interest and another picking it up, but never quite so debilitatingly. He moped around the house, going through the motions of everyday life. Renea’s birthday came and went, Peter gave her a pair of beautiful diamond earrings. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, but it hadn’t been what he wanted to give her. She had a whole box of expensive jewelry already.
The one joy Peter did find of late was using his new magical power to inspect things. The provided fun facts often made him laugh, and the more he used the ability the more information it seemed to provide - though not each use resulted in the same amount of information, even with subsequent uses on the same person or item. Even that lost its appeal after a while, though - the information he was given from the ordinary people he shook hands with or objects he touched just weren’t that interesting.
One rainy afternoon ten days after Greg Van Helsing moved on, Renea was working from their home office and came into the bedroom where Peter was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling and looking generally pathetic. She put her hand on his shoulder and he smiled weakly at her.
“You know,” Renea said, her tone gentle. “This whole brooding thing is way less effective when you do it stark nude. Instead of looking sad and vulnerable, you just look so damn sexy.”
Peter looked down at little Peter, which was flopped over to one side, sadly. He looked back up to face his wife. “I’m not brooding.”
“You’re totally brooding. Want to talk about it?”
“I just…” he started, unsure how to put his feelings into words. “I don’t know, love. Normally I have so much energy. So much that I have to be doing or learning something new all the time. Lately, I don’t even have enough energy to get out of bed. I’ve had to force myself to do literally anything. And I’m bored, but I don’t even have enough motivation to do anything about it. Which makes me depressed, which makes me less motivated, and… I just don’t know. I’m in a bit of a funk, I guess. I’m sure I’ll get over it.”
“You think so?” she asked, then took a seat on the side of the bed.
“I want to think so,” Peter acknowledged. “I mean, I’ll probably get over it. Right? Like, when people get depressed, they get over it. Don’t they?”
Renea thought quietly for a moment before responding. “Sometimes people do just get over it, yes. And sometimes people learn to live with it. But most of the time, people suffering from depression need help to get them back on track. Do you want to talk to a therapist?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Peter said, still staring at the ceiling. “This is awful.”
“Give it some thought,” she suggested. “In the meantime, I’m going to ask you something and I want you to answer honestly no matter what, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you miss Greg? Is that what this is all about?” she asked delicately, gently even.
Peter’s gaze left the ceiling to give his wife a betrayed, embarrassed look. “No. What?”
“You said you’d answer honestly,” she said, raising a brow at him. “This is a no judgment zone, and missing Greg makes sense. You got this taste of something new and exciting, the supernatural.”
Slightly shame-faced, Peter reluctantly admitted the truth. “I do miss Greg. That is what this is about,” he said, admitting it for the first time even to himself.
“I know,” she replied sagely, flashing him a weak little smile that told him she’d known all along. Renea reached to the bedside table and picked up Peter’s phone, unlocking it with an offensively bad imitation of his voice. “Phone, call Greg Van gods damned Helsing.”
Peter glared, grabbing at the phone but Renea moved to hold it out of reach. “I don’t sound like that,” he pouted.
“Evidently, you do.” Renea tapped the screen, switching to speaker mode, and Peter could hear the call ringing.
He jumped on her, tackling her onto the ground as he tried to take the phone. Renea grappled expertly, keeping the phone out of reach even as Peter wildly attempted to retrieve it. The naked man flailed ineffectively as his diminutive wife continued the game of keepaway, the two of them rolling around on the floor as the phone continued to ring.
“You know,” Renea grunted as Peter wrapped his legs around her torso, leaving little Peter dangling in front of her face, as he reached for the phone yet again. “This is kind of hot.”
Still wrestling, Peter replied between grunts of effort. “I wish I felt the same way. Then I could use little Peter to beat you to death with.” She put the phone behind her back, sandwiching it where Peter couldn’t reach between her shirt and the carpet. “Give me the damn phone, woman!”
They both stopped when Greg’s raspy voice answered the phone. Renea held it up and Peter resigned himself to the loss, slumping into a seated position with his back against the side of the bed.
“Peter gods damned Mayhew, I’m glad you called.”
“Hey Greg!” Renea said brightly. “Peter misses you. He was wondering if you wanted to come by for some dinner tonight. If you’re still in the area, that is?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Peter just looked at Renea with utter disbelief at the extent of her betrayal. He wanted to chime in, to say she was just joking, that he didn’t miss Greg or anything. But he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t just make him look worse, so he remained a silent spectator as his betrayal continued.
“Well hello, Mrs. Mayhew.” Greg said, pausing for a moment. “Yeah, I could eat. What time?”
Renea glanced at her watch. “Well he’s about to get started. Peter, dear, how long do you think it’ll take to get you out of this bed, maybe get some pants on, and make dinner?”
Peter glared at his wife, not saying a word. He folded his arms petulantly.
“7 o’clock work?” she asked Greg, smiling sweetly at Peter.
“I’ll see you then. What should I bring, whiskey?”
They worked out the details quickly and efficiently. When Renea hung up the phone, Peter just glared at her, still naked, arms folded over his chest.
“You’re really hard to take seriously when you’re naked, Peter.”
“I just can’t believe you did that,” he said, looking hurt. “You don’t even like Greg.”
“I don’t,” she agreed. “But you do.”
Peter’s frown lessened slightly and he let his arms fall to his sides. She’d strong-armed him, embarrassed him, and more or less overpowered him in an impromptu wrestling match. All to invite someone she didn’t even like to come and have dinner at their house. All because Peter had been depressed and this may help him feel a little bit better. He forgave her, silently.
“You should probably put some pants on and get started on dinner. I’ve got a few more emails to wrap up before your boyfriend gets here. What are we having?”
For the first time in days, Peter Mayhew did not order delivery for dinner. Instead, he energetically got to the enjoyable task of making dinner himself. He did not put pants on, as they were not entirely necessary for cooking. He did, however, put his favorite apron on for utilitarian reasons and to protect little Peter from any hot splashing elements that may crop up. He put in some music, a playlist of way-too-hard-for-Peter-Mayhew gangster rap, and bobbed his head with the beat, dancing here and there with each step of preparing the evening meal. Renea passed him as she left the home office to get something from the living room, stopping to smile admiringly at the pep that had been missing in Peter’s step, which was now back to normal-for-Peter levels. And to watch his bare ass as he danced, poorly, to the beat. Peter, oblivious to his lecherous wife’s voyeurism, happily lost himself in the work.
Flapjack began nervously circling the door moments before the sound of Greg Van Helsing’s roaring motorcycle came tearing down the Mayhew’s driveway. Peter opened the door wearing his Snoop and Stewart apron with nothing underneath and the geriatric corgi excitedly scurried out to greet Greg, who unstrapped his travel bag and then bent to pet the dog. He stood to his full height, a towering 6’6’’ and smiled warmly at Peter.
“Hey Greg,” Peter greeted, accepting the offered bottle of whiskey - an expensive vintage that he couldn’t wait to try. “How are things?”
“Things are good. I’m actually really glad you called, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about. And I brought some stuff I want you to analyze, but we can do that after dinner.”
Peter led Greg through the living room and into the kitchen, Flapjack trailing them with his stubby tail wiggling happily. The table was set, but Greg had arrived early and the food was not yet ready. Renea was still working in the home office and Flapjack diligently went to retrieve her as Greg sat heavily at the table. Peter crouched, his bare ass nearly touching the floor, to check on the dish cooking in the oven and then, unsatisfied, continued what he’d been doing before Greg’s arrival: tossing the salad.
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Peter called from the kitchen, tongs whipping through the air as he tossed the salad with a flourish.
“It can wait for dinner,” Greg said dismissively. “But I would like to talk to you immediately about why your ass is looking at me. Why aren’t you ever wearing pants? Anyway, it’d probably be best if Mrs. Mayhew is a part of the real conversation anyway.”
“That’s usually the case,” Renea agreed, entering the kitchen from the hallway with Flapjack in her wake. “Nice to see you, Greg. And good luck trying to get Peter to wear pants.”
Greg smiled his incredibly white-toothed smile at her and dipped his chin. “Mrs. Mayhew.”
“You can call me Renea,” she said, flashing the big man an odd look. “I think we’ve been through enough together to be on a first name basis, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Renea joined Greg at the table, Flapjack waiting beneath for any scraps to reach his domain.
“Should be ready in just a minute,” Peter called, now dishing the salad onto three plates. “Why don’t you pour some drinks, love?”
Peter crouched to check the oven again, this time visibly pleased with what he saw. Renea poured three glasses of red wine and set them out on the table. A moment later, Peter brought the food and excused himself to put on a shirt, and pants. He returned in sweatpants and a well-worn and faded Fallout Boy t-shirt. He took his seat beside Renea and dinner was a go. Greg stabbed at his eggplant parmesan with his fork, and then pushed around the salad for a moment.
“No meat?” he asked with disappointment.
“Meatless Monday, homie,” Peter explained, digging into his eggplant with gusto.
Greg frowned at his plate, clearly making a mental note of avoiding dinner at the Mayhew’s on Mondays in the future. “Well, thanks for having me over. It isn’t often I get to play dinner guest.”
“You’re welcome here anytime,” Renea said. She sipped at her wine.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Peter said firmly after a few minutes of silently eating. “What is it you wanted to talk about? The curiosity has been killing me.”
Greg laughed. “I’ll come right out and say it, then. I want you to come help me with a mission I started in the 80s but got stuck and eventually gave up on. Between your puzzle solving skills and new ability to analyze anything you can touch, you might just be the perfect person to break through where I failed.”
Excited and intrigued, Peter opened his mouth to respond with an enthusiastic, “I’ll do it!”, but Renea beat him to the punch.
“What’s the catch?”
Greg swallowed some of his eggplant parmesan with visible effort, washing it down with his entire glass of wine. “The catch is that it isn’t exactly local.”
The idea of traveling with Greg on some whacky adventure sounded to Peter like exactly what he needed to pull himself out of this funk he’d been in and once again opened his mouth to agree and beg for details like the thirsty bitch he was. Again, Renea beat him to it.
“How not local are we talking about here?” she asked, filling Greg’s empty wine glass.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip before answering. “The ruins are in Mexico.”
“Sweetie, can I go to Mexico with Greg Van Helsing?” Peter asked sweetly. “Can I? Can I?”
Renea was silent for a while, looking back and forth between Peter’s frankly adorable pleading expression and Greg’s less adorable, but persuasively hopeful one.
“No,” she decided, looking apologetic and then resigned. “You can’t go across the world with the man you met on the internet, and took you into a naked vampire’s house, and dragged you into a fight with a werewolf all in one day.”
Peter slumped, eyes narrowing as he prepared his counter argument.
“Not without someone to keep an eye on you two, at least. No way.”
Peter brightened. “Does that mean you’ll come, too?”
She deflated, relenting to his adorable pleading. “I’ve got the PTO to do it, but the timing isn’t great. I can’t just not do my job. I’ll have to bring my laptop and do it from a hotel or something.”
“Ahhh!” Peter shouted excitedly, springing up from the table and bouncing on his toes. “I’m going to go pack!”
A few seconds later, Peter shouted into the kitchen from down the hall. “Am I going to need swim trunks in Mexico?”
“It isn’t a vacation, Peter,” Greg answered gruffly. “But, yeah. I’d say bring a pair just in case.”
“We aren’t leaving tonight, Peter. Come finish your dinner,” Renea added without looking up from where she was tapping at her phone.
A few minutes of somewhat awkward silence later, Peter rejoined Renea and Greg at the kitchen table and hurriedly shoved the rest of his food down the hatch. He had some questions that needed answers, such as ‘what is in Mexico?’, and quickly got to asking.