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Thor smiled gleefully at his list. Natasha had told him to use the neatest handwriting he could, so Santa could have every chance of reading the carefully-printed words. But the Migard pens were so small, not a patch on the elaborate quills used in Odin's court. Bruce had a similar problem, as the Hulk had a particular hold on him; waiting to emerge. Usually, the good doctor would spend the day napping, as to control the beast but he hadn't wanted to miss his slot for Father Christmas. Steve's letter was written in sloping script, every word chosen to have the upmost affect. Fury would arrive in the morning to take the letters away to SHIELD, who apparently had a direct link with Santa. Yeah, right.

As always, Tony had sniffed at the idea of 'sending junk to a stupid fakey in the north pole', pouring himself another shot of brandy. Natasha had scowled so fiercely at him that he reconsidered, tipping the amber liquid back into the bottle.

Tony hated Christmas. It was time for being with a family that he didn't have. Pepper was gone, as was Rhodey. They were both married now (not to each other, that would be weird. No, to Happy Hogan and a woman whos name escaped the genius respectively) and possibly on the other side of the world. Tony hadn't bothered to keep track. Also, it wasn't as if he needed presents. If he wanted something, he could just buy it. The curse of the rich, he called it.

Once again, he eyed the Avengers, all huddled around the table in the kitchen. Thor's pink tongue poked out from his lips as he concerntrated. Tony could see him shakily make out the word 'Loki' on the paper, which almost ripped with the strain. The arc-reactor flickered with Tony's sadness. He didn't understand it. Why was Thor always so hopeful? Loki was evil, scum of the Earth. And nothing would change that. Apart from, apparently, Santa.

But now it was late, and the tower was in slumber. With minium noise, Tony crept out of his labratory. A loud creak came from one of the floor boards. Tony winced, watching Clint (who was curled up in his nest in the ceiling) stirr. Thankfully, the agent didn't wake and simply rolled over, exposing a grand pile of letters.

With a smirk, Tony slipped in his own and snuck away into the darkness. There was no harm in hoping.

Dear Santa,

It's me, Tony.

Just wondering if you could, you know, give me another chance? I've been pretty good this year, saving New York and keeping my boasting to a minimum. So... see what you can do? Just this once? For me? I'll throw in a free phone!

Love Regards,

Anthony Edward Stark.