Chapter 1- Hot Cider

The Doctor decided that he should've left this small town in South Dakota about a week ago. But quite frankly, the perfect suburbia that made a microseism in these parts was just too entertaining to watch. Especially at this time of year.

Although it's bitterly cold outside, down to single digits without the constant blistering wind, he trudges over the white blanketed landscape once known as Humboldt Community Park. Blithely rubbing his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm them, he plods across the freshly fallen snow towards the lingering clump of citizens of this wonderfully intertwined community that were crowded at the edge of the skate pond, the thick flurry still whispering past his face and melting on the exposed flesh of his cheeks.

He'll never truly understand humans, he thought decisively, goggling in a sense of awe at the bustling figures that moved about across the park. Despite the temperature, there are people, humans, out today. Little kids bundled up in snowsuits and scarves trundle through the knee-deep trough. Dogged teenagers pretending to be immune to the weather are leaning jauntily against the frozen lamp posts, and above their heads are several adults tethering oversized bright red bows atop the light fixture and stringing up a length of flashing colored bulbs across the towering pines that stand, lining the plowed path that curled up the hillside and out of sight.

Then there's him. This particular boy catches the Doctor's attention almost immediately. He's buried somewhere underneath a threadbare parka, which looks like it's lost most of its warmth from its years of use, let alone its several sizes too small for the lanky teenage boy. He's hunched over a metal hot dog cart, though the home-made sign that is tacked to the front proclaims that he's selling hot apple cider and roasted nuts. From the looks of it as well, the number of people cradling steaming styrofoam cups along the shore, he's doing fair business. And to be honest, shivering against the park bench, the Doctor could fancy a cup of cider right about now.

"Hello there," the Doctor says cheekily, coming up alongside the young man.

"Happy Holidays," the boy grunts out, and it's sounds more than a little rehearsed and cynical. His pale lips are pressed together into a thin line and he looks decidedly uncomfortable, hands shoved in his pocket as he shakes violently in a desperate attempt to fight off the cold. He puffs out another breath, a cloud of steam appearing in the air, and he shifts, tilting his head to get a better view of the Doctor. It should resemble a sign of respect, to meet his customers' eyes, but it just gives the Doctor a pang of pity at the visible clatter of the poor child's teeth and the burdened look in his bottle green eyes. Finally, the boy speaks, "What're you here for, sir?"

"Just here to check out your set up, that okay?" It's a formality, the question, and the boy just drops his gaze and shrugs.

"Whatever floats your boat, dude," the words come out rough and disinterested, but the boy bounces on the balls of his feet as he says them, which could be a sign of the cold but the Doctor can feel the nervous tension settle between.

The boy must be affected by it too, because he suddenly jerks his head in the direction the gold chain draping out from the Doctor's overcoat, spitting out, "What time?" An unreadable expression flickered across his features and he lowered his voice as if asking for forgiveness, "If you don't mind, sir?"

"Not at all, my boy," the Doctor smiles easily, flipping up his wrist to catch sight of the wristwatch. "Ten past two."

At that, the boy curses under his breath.

"What is it?"

The boy shoots the Doctor another suspicious look, but just shakes his head. "I'm gonna be missing pieces when I get home," he announces sourly, scrubbing his hands inside the coat's pockets. "Seriously, I'm freezin' my ass off out here."

"Your coat looks warm," the Doctor offers, then steps back as a skater comes skidding to a stop in front of the booth. She asks for a refill, and at first the Doctor watches the transaction casually, then snaps to attention when as he sees the juvenile take his hands out of his pockets to pour cider and accept the stranger's fifty cents. Fifteen below with wind-chill, and this child isn't wearing any gloves.

Enough is enough, he thinks angrily, and schools his face into a gentle calm. "Hey-" he doesn't actually know this kid's name- "maybe you should take a break and come inside. Or at least get yourself some gloves. It's brass monkeys out here today."

"Brass monkeys?" the kid asks with a skeptical cock of his eyebrow.

"Cold," the doctor corrects himself. "It's extremely cold."

"No shit Sherlock," the boy grumbles, and removes his hands to pour another cup of cider for a bypasser.

Exhaling forcefully, seeing this teenager is just a stubborn and firm as the others, the Doctor decides to take another approach. Turning to the boy, staring down at his hunched form, he makes his voice as compassionate as possible, "What's your name, kid?"

"What difference does that make to you?" the boy shoots back, his eyes hard and untrusting on his sneakers.

"I'm the Doctor," he tries again, a smile tugging at his face as he sees the befuddlement and curiosity passing over the boy's features.

"The Doctor?" When he scrunches his nose in confusement, his freckles dance. "Doctor who?"

The Doctor laughs. Who indeed. But at least the boy seems to be softening as curiosity consumes his pride. Taking the presented opportunity, the Doctor leans down, just so he isn't completely towering over the boy. "Your name first." The boy straightens with those words, his eyes darting up and down, and even though the movement is harmless enough, the intentions are a little wounding. He is sizing him up. He's judging if he can beat him. He is terrified of trusting him.

After a moment passes, he drops his gaze and shuffles awkwardly in the snow, scuffing the fluffy white with his toe. The name comes out short, soft, cautious, "Dean."

The Doctor can't help himself from giving a grin. He extends a hand, which the boy- Dean- takes it as firmly as a grown man, shaking it just as well, and the Doctor nearly beams, "Alrighty then! Well, nice to meet you Dean." The boy's fingers are cold and icy folded inside his, stiff and overworked and sting of worry bites into the Doctor's heart.

"Likewise." The word is strong. Gruff. Hardened. Frozen into a solid block.

"So what are you doing out here, Dean?" It feels better on his tongue, giving this boy a name.

Dean looks at him with a question in his eyes. "What does it look like?" he sneers, then that same panicked expression twists his face and he says quickly, "Selling hot apple cider, sir."

"No need to call me 'Sir'," the Doctor reassures him, "Doctor's fine."

"Well then, Doctor, you gonna buy somethin' or you just gonna stand there and look pretty," he quips back, and the Doctor could see him rebuilding his defences now the two had found some common ground.

"Soon," the Doctor shrugs. "And that's not what I mean, Dean," the Doctor amends, "I mean what are you doing here? Why aren't you at home with your family? It's three days before Christmas for Heaven's sake!"

Dean actually scoffs, shaking his head with a knowing smile.

"What is it, Dean?"

When he raises his gaze to meet the Doctor's, his eyes are uncomfortably wet. "That's exactly it, Doc: family." At first, the Doctor thinks that's the end of it, the way Dean hushes. But then Dean wags his head with a quiet chuckle. And Dean's speaking again, his voice thick and heavy with unbidden emotion, "Ya see, Doc, I -uh- I have this pain-in-the-ass little brother back where we're stayin' and my Dad's not gonna be home for Christmas and… and… and I -uh- he still believes in Ol' Saint Nick -Santie Claus- ya know." He breathes a loving, exasperated laugh. "And he's my responsibility. I'm not gonna let him down."

The Doctor freezes at the confession, trying to contemplate each bit of information, each bit of screaming pain in his words, and then realizes that Dean's laughing. A rough, mirthless laugh. He gives the Doctor a cocky grin, and adds, "Plus, we're almost outta food."

It comes out as an easy joke, a playful jab at whatever Dean is hinting at, but for the Doctor it hits a little too close to home. This child admonishing himself for his parents' misjudgment.

"So," Dean sighs and mops his turning purple hands across his face, before fisting them back into his coat pockets, "I'm just scrounging up what I can. Just doin' my best to make ends meet." His voice trails off as he inspects the half full change jar where he's been clearly collecting his profits in. After he seemed satisfied, he sets it out on the stand, watching it longingly for a second more before turning back to the Doctor.

The Doctor hopes that he had a mind enough to bring American currency as he rummages through his coat's plentiful pockets, finally withdrawing a wad of cash. Thumbing through it, he counts out two twenties and three fives, bunches them into a fist and thrusts them into the Mason. "One cup of hot cider please."

Dean stands there, slack-jawed and eyes wide, for a minute before finally propelling himself into action. Pouring the Doctor a cup filled to the rim in apple cider, he hands it over and begins to study the bills with a confused almost worried expression, and it pained the Doctor to read the utter distress on the boy's face as he waits fearfully for the other boot to drop.

Bidding Dean a good day, the Doctor walked out of the park, replaying the fascinating encounter with that strange boy. As he reached the ridge of trees, now flashing red and green and gold, he tosses the words over his shoulder, making sure to pitch them far enough for Dean to catch wind of them. "Oh, and don't forget to buy yourself a pair of good gloves with that money."

Without another look back, the Doctor trudges through the snow, taking long and slow sips of cider. He never had better.