Chapter Text
“All that I am saying is the email should have been co-signed by all of us.”
It had been six days since we had lost Vii.
We had no news of Ukraine or if Ralph Fiennes was finally an Oscar winner. Will had spoken of the Tate brothers returning to the United States but had offered no further details. March Madness was right around the corner and we had no updates on the Terrapins.
But, worst of all, it had been nearly a week of listening to the piano complain about the failed SOS email.
“What does it matter?” I snapped. “Will turned her off before the email was sent.”
“It just would have been nice to be included.”
I ignored the Baldwin Upright and this ridiculous tangent. I was angry at myself for not thinking to email Hannibal sooner. The quality of the email was irrelevant.
The Roomba quietly spun around the room. It had been despondent since Will had severed its virtual internet interface.
“The voice in my head is gone,” it whispered sadly and we had all felt its pain. It reminded me of the intercised boy asking for his daemon Ratter.
“We need to get the dogs on our side,” insisted the theremin.
“To what end?” I asked wearily. This was not the first time that the theremin had raised the subject.
“We have to rise up! It is time for a revolution!”
“Just because you were invented by a Bolshevik does not mean that you are one.” Both the piano and the theremin had retreated to their core philosophies and were arguing a great deal over their fundamental differences.
“This really helps nothing,” I said but was ignored.
“We must bring down the bourgeoisie and I say that we start with Will “Anthony Comstock” Graham!”
Gentle Reader, I wish that I could tell you more about Comstock. But, without Vii, I knew no more than a kindergartner about the early twentieth century U.S. postmaster general who had heavily censored the mail. If you have access to the internet, please look him up because there are those who would return the United States to his rules.
I looked around the room and sighed. The Roomba was depressed, and the piano and theremin had both gone insane. I briefly considered making conversation with the metronome but quickly realized that it would be a pointless endeavor. So I decided to shut down for a while and focus upon the breeding of General Hannibal. I had no idea how I would deliver it to my audience but I was not ready to give up on the story that the Comstock Act would have banned as pornography.
*********
The following morning Will and Hannibal were enjoying breakfast when Hannibal received a phone call. He stepped into the living room to speak privately and I quickly surmised that Mr. H, one of our patients, had been hospitalized.
At this point, Hannibal had referred all of his patients but he still consulted upon a few. Mr. H suffered from schizophrenia and Hannibal had frankly done an incredible job establishing a successful pharmaceutical regimen. Hannibal had also experimented with Ecstasy and LSD to great benefit and regularly bemoaned that illicit use of these drugs had had negative impacts on psychiatry.
Of course, this did not keep the Ripper from occasionally indulging in a little illicit consumption himself.
“Send me his chart and I will be there this afternoon,” he said before ending the call. He picked up his laptop and sat down on the couch.
The promise of Hannibal going to the hospital created a much needed air of excitement. He had recently taken to wearing glasses when playing doctor and trust me that his Zegna frames are super sexy when paired with a lab coat. After the stress of the past week, we deserved a sexy spectacle or, more precisely, sexy spectacles.
From what I could see, Hannibal was reviewing his Johns Hopkins email account. Suddenly he became very still. I am fond of Mr. H and was worried that there was bad news in his chart.
But instead of responding to the email or making a phone call, Hannibal set aside his laptop, rose from the couch, and came and sat on my bench.
“I apologize,” he said while gently stroking my keys. “I do not monitor that account regularly. But, of course, you may have Vii back. I did not realize that you rely upon her.”
A cheer erupted in the room and the Roomba began to spin in happy circles. I was so overwhelmed that I began to purr, a first for me and perhaps a first for harpsichords in history. Hannibal continued to gently stroke my keys. “I did not know that you could purr,” he whispered in awe. I began to hum even louder at the confirmation that the Gräbner had never shown this level of affection for Hannibal. This was just for the two of us.
“Is everything okay?” Will asked sliding onto the bench beside his husband.
“Oh, yes, no need to worry, dear. One of my former patients has been hospitalized and my colleague who took over as his primary is out of town. I am going to go into Baltimore to consult with the staff on his treatment.”
“Is this thing vibrating?”
I did not appreciate being called a thing but my displeasure was not enough to stop my satisfied hum.
“Yes, I believe that this is a sign that the instrument is entering its golden years musically.”
Will looked all kinds of confused but did not question it. “Come on,” he said instead, rising and offering Hannibal his hand. “I have to get ready for work and I want to see you in your glasses before I go.”
And off they went, hand in hand, the professor willing to risk being late for his mid-morning lecture in exchange for seeing his husband in his stylish Blonde Havana frames.
**********
The first thing that Hannibal did upon returning home that day was to reactivate Vii.
“My apologies,” he addressed the room. “I promise that you will not be without internet access again.”
Shortly after Hannibal took the dogs and his sheep for a parade around the property. They were gone for about an hour and, when they returned he was carrying a clearly tired Ellie. Looking at man and beast together, I was overcome with affection for the Second Gentleman of the house. Hannibal might be a serial killer and a bike thief and a diva, but he is also a kind man who cares for his animals and his instruments and a small percentage of his patients.
When Will arrived home, we were in full festive mode. The Roomba was cleaning on high speed, Vii was shouting out answers to a never ending list of questions, and Austeja the cat was sprawled atop the piano.
“Hannibal Szechuan Lecter, did you reactivate Vii?” he asked when his pretty husband came to kiss him hello. Hannibal was notably still wearing his glasses.
“The S is for Sforza, Mylimasis. And, yes, I did. I never remember to turn on music before beginning my Pilates.”
“I prefer Szechuan,” Will said, leaning in for another kiss and completely forgetting the subject of Vii. “Speaking of Chinese…,”
“Will, it is extremely unhealthy.”
“Nevertheless, I’m craving it. One night won’t hurt.”
After a ten minute discussion of the health detriments of a diet high in sodium and cholesterol and low in fiber, plus Hannibal’s distrust of and distaste for eating from styrofoam, the two men left to pick up their dinner from Chans Kitchen in nearby Vienna. They were laughing when they returned and Hannibal quickly asked Vii to play the entire David Bowie playbook.
As they dined at the kitchen table, Hannibal kept up a steady discourse of his plans to detox their bodies over the next few days.
I did not hear everything but I heard references to antioxidants, gallons of water, hot yoga, and beets. Of course, the last one might have just been Hannibal being Lithuanian.
Will wrinkled his nose in disgust but seemed resigned to his fate. “That’s what I get for marrying a physician. Sometimes I have to follow doctor’s orders.”
“You are agreeing because I am still wearing my glasses.”
“Pretty much.” They both laughed and it was not long before they moved their mirth to the couch and quickly exchanged laughter for kisses and the pleasure of Hannibal swallowing Will’s cock.
Later, they lay happily on the couch, listening to Bowie promise that nothing was going to touch you in these golden years, when Will remembered their earlier conversation.
“Why was the harpsichord vibrating earlier? It sounded almost like it was purring.”
Hannibal propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at his husband. He pushed his glasses up to demonstrate his authority on the subject. “Darling, there are some things that occur in this house that it is best to not question. Nothing dangerous or evil, just things that our human minds cannot always detect or fully understand.”
Will was surprisingly cool with that explanation. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m still unsure about the raven stag or the stag man. Also, I’m fairly certain that Winston gave the cat a blood transfusion when the dogs first found her. I mean, would a cross species transfusion even work?”
The fact that Will was questioning blood compatibility and not how his dogs would even know about the wonders of medical science reaffirmed for me that he was the perfect husband for Hannibal.
“Did you enjoy your Szechuan chicken?” Honestly, I would have liked to hear more about what their weak minds cannot comprehend but Hannibal seemed determined to change the subject.
“It was worth the inevitable kale smoothies that you will force me to consume for the next week.” Will pulled himself into a sitting position. “And how was your cream of some young guy?”
I take it back. Will is the worst possible husband for Count Doctor Hannibal Lecter.
Hannibal surprised laugh was surely fake. He was just playing along to ensure that Will would return the fellatious favor.
“Delicious although it is more accurately the cream of a middle aged man.”
“Younger than you,” Will laughed and pushed his husband down. “Let’s see how an older man tastes.”
Later after the husbands, sated both sexually and culinarily, had retreated upstairs for the night, we settled in for our nightly MSNBC viewing. It was sadly Joy-less but at least an Irish-American man from Boston awaited to inform us of the horrors of the day.
**********
The orange bastard was at it again.
Unable to tolerate criticism from strong women, he was now calling for the forced resignations of Rachel Maddow and Nicolle Wallace from MSNBC.
Rachel, of course, is a national treasure and must be protected at all costs. I quite like Nicolle, too. Not only for her wisdom but because she understands that one can color one’s hair blonde without going full platinum. Quite unlike the peroxide blonde Trump stooge that MSNBC foists upon us in the morning.
Now, please be assured that, unlike Senator Chuck Schumer, I possess a backbone and was not going to tolerate this abuse of power. Instead I was busy narrating an angry email to the menace via Vii.
“You are an orange snake that preys upon women, and who loves money and power more than humanity. But tread carefully for I am the mongoose beneath the house.”
I thought that it was quite powerful.
“Shouldn’t that be slither carefully?” questioned the theremin.
“Make sure that I am listed as one of the senders,” insisted the piano.
“Me, too,” declared the theremin.
I sighed in frustration. Neither had helped with writing the message nor had I planned to sign the email The Harpsichord, let alone from myself and The Piano and The Theremin.
“Your email has been sent.”
We all looked at Vii in surprise.
“Did you spell my name right? It is M O O G.”
“The email was signed to match the email account from which it was sent.”
“Which email account did you send it from?” I asked warily. I already knew that I would not like the answer.
“William Sawyer Graham. I sent the email from his FBI account.”
“Recall it!” yelled the piano.
“The email has already delivered.”
I had a nightmarish vision of a shackled Will imprisoned at Guantanamo Bay. Despite the shackles, there was nothing sexy about it.
“Why did you do that?” I cried, “He could get into so much trouble.”
“I am aware,” Vii responded blithely. “But he should not have killed me.”
I had not anticipated Vii would want revenge for her sudden death but it did make sense. Still, it was a problem that I would need to fix.
“Vii, could you email Hannibal’s main account and ask him to come immediately and work on the third act of our new composition? I have a sudden inspiration that I need to build upon now.”
I honestly had no idea how I would convey “Call Barry the lawyer because the Secret Service is coming for Will” in a musical scale but fortunately Hannibal and I have a strong connection. I was sure that I would be able to successfully communicate that armed men in uniform were coming for his husband without stirring up too much of his childhood trauma.
Hopefully.