Winter in Baltimore was much the same as it had always been. The air was frosty, biting playfully at noses and ears; a brisk wind blew through layers of wool to tickle the skin beneath and an inch or so of snow dusted the ground to be crunched satisfyingly beneath boots. An idyllic winter, in essence. Except that snow turned to grey sludge in the gutter and on the road; wind howled with laughter as it removed hats and sent letters flying onto the sidewalk and frost in the air turned to frost on the ground that turned to treacherous ice.

Damned ice.

Will Graham, clad in full and quite adorable ensemble of hat, scarf and gloves, trudged down the highstreet clutching a still-warm bag of muffins in one bemittened hand. Whilst he had taken his car from Wolftrap into Baltimore that day, he'd parked it in a multi-storey and hoped for the best. There was no point in him driving from the city centre to Hannibal Lecter's practice: it wasn't that far and, despite the conditions, the roads were still as rammed as usual.

Since their introduction not all that long ago Will and Doctor Lecter had been spending increasing amounts of time in each other's company, and not just through the 'appointments' that Will made with him. Today Will was relatively free. Jack hadn't called and he didn't have any classes to teach until tomorrow. Whilst his next session with Hannibal was in a couple of days, Will had felt the familiar tug of loneliness when he awoke telling him that he was in need of some actual human contact. Thus, Will had found himself driving the hour to Maryland to try and catch Hannibal during his lunch break. He'd even spent five fevered minutes on the internet looking up where he could obtain the best muffins in Baltimore. He daren't arrive empty-handed; or worse – arrive baring inferior culinary delights.

He clutched the bag of muffins to his chest, his mind pleasantly distant at the thought of seeing Hannibal. Enjoy the muffins, he added quickly; he wanted to see Hannibal enjoy the muffins.

An inch of snow can be deceiving. Its fluffy facade can act as a veil to disaster.

Will's boot placed firmly on the ground.

The snow beneath it seemed to part like the red sea, giving way to the black ice it concealed.

Will's back foot was already off of the floor, his weight placed solely on the toes of his front.

He slipped.

He tipped.

He fell.

Hard onto his knees, left hand jutting out to stop his face from hitting the concrete, right hand still clutching desperately at the muffins. Pain jolted through him, the force of the impact tearing a hole in the knee of his jeans. He swore, plaintively.

"Fuck!"

Cautiously Will made to right himself, tilting first into a crouch before slowly rising to a stand. Brushing himself down with his left hand (the right still quite preoccupied with muffins that were, to their credit, quite unharmed) he found at once the rip in the denim of his trousers. He gingerly placed gloved hand to knee, feeling another little sharp stab of pain. The wool came away a little bloody.

He sighed, "Shit."

Hoping beyond all hope that Hannibal wouldn't notice, Will collected himself and strode – a little more carefully – past the last few blocks to Hannibal's practice.

His knock upon the now familiar wooden door was more resigned than usual. His hat and mittens were removed but his cheeks burnt red with the change in air temperature; the biting cold giving way to the central heated building in which the doctor worked. Will raised his left hand to knock again when the door suddenly swung inwards; catching him by surprise so much that he nearly lost his footing once again.

He held the muffins aloft, still luke warm, as a sort of peace offering to the gods that had thus far failed to protect him and his dignity.

"Will"

"Doctor Lecter..." The muffins swayed.

"Do come in, I was just starting my lunch. I have enough for two."

"I brought muffins."

"I see."

And with that Hannibal Lecter stood to the side and held the door open, waiting until Will was just past him before speaking again.

"Quite horrible weather, today. I see you took a tumble in the ice." He let the door close, stepping into the room just behind Will.

At once Will felt his face flush and he half turned to catch the man's eyes. Gods did not, apparently, care for muffins. Hannibal retained his composure, his face a picture of professional nonchalance. That is, until his eyes flicked down to Will's bloodied knee, at which point his facade seemed to come apart to reveal both ridges of concern around his eyes and the faint lines of amusement at his lips.

"Honestly it's not that bad," Will turned back to step further into the room, trying in vain to direct Hannibal's attention away from his mishap. As he set the bag of muffins down on Hannibal's desk he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder. It guided him quite firmly away from and down into one of the two familiar leather chairs that he used during sessions.

"Hannibal, really..."

But the doctor was already on the far side of the room lifting a footstool, his intentions suddenly obvious. Will buried his face in his hands.

"Would you tell me how you fell?" Hannibal was in front of him now, crouched down and leaning on the footstool with his left hand. With his right he held a small first aid kit, which he placed atop the arm of Will's chair.

"I, uh... I was being careless. Not looking where I was going. Mind on... other things," Will replied weakly, tensing a little as Hannibal's hand settled on his ankle and elevated his leg, before placing his foot on the stool.

"You were in a rush?" Will's jeans were loose, allowing Hannibal to roll up the offending pant-leg with ease.

Will swallowed.

"Yes, I- I wanted to see you, I mean... I wanted to catch you in your break, uh... to give you muffins. I got them from this little place in the city centre; they're supposed to be the best. In Baltimore. Um... so I was hurrying. To meet you. And I lost my footing and I fell. It's really not that bad though it's just a graze. Only a little blood...I'll live."

The cold press and sharp sting of antibacterial wipe to scraped skin cut Will off, drawing sudden halt to his rambling.

Hannibal's touch was gentle, his fingers resting lightly on his calf and the back of his knee. A comforting warmth seemed to seep through them, beating back the lingering chill that had settled in Will's bones.

"You don't have to find an excuse if you wish to see me, Will," his hand rubbed across Will's knee firmly but not harshly.

There was a tenderness in the way Hannibal touched Will, be it in a professional handshake, a friendly shoulder pat or, as now, in the more intimate role as personal carer. Will was hit by a sudden stab of empathy. He saw himself in Hannibal at that moment, as he was when he was at home with his dogs; the compassion with which he was being treated the same as that which he held for a newly found stray. He would clean it, nurse it back to health and bring it into the fold of his heart and his home. It would transform from lost and bitterly alone to a place of belonging. Will knew at once that he was Hannibal's stray. Doctor Lecter would take care of him and give him a place to be at home. They understood each other, more than either of them had ever understood anyone else.

"The comfort you derive from our companionship is not to be ashamed of, Will, and it is not a sentiment felt by only one side."

His hands left Will's leg, and with them went to coolness of the wipe, only to be replaced by a persistent heat that permeated his body. His mouth fell open in a silent gape that was quickly stifled as Hannibal brought his hands back to caress his exposed skin. Deftly the doctor tore open the sealed packet of a sticking plaster, positioning the pad over the abrasion on Will's knee. Ever so slowly and ever so gently he placed it down, fingers smoothing the adhesive edges.

Hannibal leant forwards, then, head tilting down to place a kiss – gentle yet definite – atop the dressing. His lips lingered a little before he stood and smoothly moved across to his desk, leaving Will to stare in utter disbelief at the band-aid adorning his knee.

"You mustn't be so careless, Will," came Hannibal's voice from beside him. He held a muffin in each hand, one extending to Will, "I'm afraid they've rather cooled down, now, but I do not doubt that they will remain delicious."

Will did not have the words to reply.