Greg Van Helsing was cleaning his guns, and he was in a sour mood. He was seated at the Mayhew’s kitchen table with various components laid out on a thick mat that Peter insisted he use when cleaning weapons in the house.
Nearby, Peter was diligently cleaning up after the breakfast he had made for himself, Renea, and Greg - a strange, but lovely, Japanese dish Greg hadn’t tried before called omurice - wearing an apron with a photo of Flapjack on its front. The geriatric corgi on Peter’s apron was smiling widely and sticking his head out of the window of a moving vehicle. Where Peter got these aprons, or why he wore them as he went about his daily duties, Greg did not know and did not care.
When Peter was finished cleaning up, he once again began pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry to set out on the bleach-cleaned counters.
“You can’t be hungry again already,” Greg said, holding a component of his disassembled firearm close to his eyes for inspection.
“This isn’t for me,” Peter said without looking away from his task. “Flapjack needs breakfast too.”
Curious, Greg stood and approached the counter where Peter was putting together a breakfast for the dog. He couldn’t believe the complexity and nutritional value of the ingredients Peter had laid out. There were a few different kinds of meat, what looked like chopped liver, carrots, peas, zucchini, and a mixture of various greens stirred into a kind of mash that Greg couldn’t identify.
Peter hummed an upbeat melody, bobbing his head side to side as he chopped the meat and vegetables and then placed them in neat little piles on the countertop. Preparations complete, he bent to pick up Flapjack’s food bowl.
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The unique scrape of the metallic bowl against the tile of the floor created a sound that Flapjack clearly knew well. The old boy came trotting out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, tongue lolling, to stand behind Peter. His butt wiggled with increasing speed as Peter placed each component of the meal into the bowl and, finally, did the repeated rapid stomping with his front paws that only corgis do when Peter bent to place his nutritional bowl of breakfast on the ground.
“You do this every day?” Greg asked. He was equal parts impressed and disgusted. He didn’t even put that much effort into meals for himself. In fact, for almost all of his meals before meeting the Mayhew’s, Greg was a microwave dinner kind of guy. The ones with labels like ‘hearty man’, or ‘double meat bowl’ that always had bold, red lettering for whatever reason.
“Almost,” Peter said happily. He then began cleaning up the kitchen, again, his ever-present bottle of bleach in one hand and a kitchen towel in the other.
Greg Van Helsing did not understand this normy at all. He liked Peter well enough, the too-pretty and always earnest man had grown on him like a tumor. A tumor with a bright smile and a plate of food. He looked down at the dog who was now licking the bowl clean of any remnants of his gourmet breakfast. Even for a dog Hell Hound hybrid, he was in remarkable shape. Between his meals and the exercise he got on daily walks with Peter - the brief interludes Peter took to walk between petting every cat in the neighborhood - Greg figured the old boy probably had at least a few more years in him.
Watching Peter pour the remainder of the coffee from the pot and into a mug, Greg realized something. That was why Peter took such care of Flapjack. He adored the dog, clearly, and had just as clearly done thorough research into what to feed him and how to care for him to keep him alive as long as he possibly could. Contemplating whether or not he had ever cared about anyone or anything in his centuries long life as Peter did about the dog and coming up blank, Greg realized something else. Peter Mayhew’s ability to love and to care far exceeded his own.
“Greg?” Peter asked. “You alright? You’ve got this look on your face. I can’t tell if you’re reliving your haunted past, contemplating murder, or if you just have to poop.”