Nick huffs softly in relief as he steps out of the last fireplace of the night. The last house, finally.

His blue eyes flicker around the small, homey apartment. It was decorated nicely for Christmas, and, surprisingly, there were cookies out. Most adults didn't bother when they lived alone, but you did.

His eyes catch sight of you, curled up on the couch beneath a soft white blanket, fast asleep.

Nick was Santa. Not the stereotypical one, no. He wasn't round, he didn't have a big white beard. He was quite the opposite, in fact. Black hair, blue eyes, lean, tall, yet strong. Not that any human had really seen him before.

He thinks for a moment, glancing at your features. He knew you. Well. Not personally, but when you were a child, you always -- without fail -- wrote him letters for Christmas. Not all of them were wishlists, either.