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Disclaimer: I don't own harry Potter or Avengers. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: I couldn't get this idea out of my head. If I ever completed it, it would be a snapshot collection, of sorts.

The shawarma restaurant Stark led them to was fortunately in one piece, but as their effusive servers refilled glasses and such things, Clint's gaze was on his phone. He'd sent a message out to Violet, and although the exhaustion of three days without proper sleep had finally hit him full force, he was determined that he wouldn't pass out until he saw - or at least heard from - his family, alive, well, and safe.

Natasha had quietly assured him that they'd been moved to a safe house as soon as he'd been compromised, but there was still that niggling fear that they'd still been hurt, and Clint needed to see them, to hold them, and to make certain Loki hadn't harmed a single hair on any of their heads. If he had, no S.H.I.E.L.D containment cell would stop Hawkeye from obtaining his just desserts.

"What's twisted your tail feathers, Legolas?" Stark queried. He looked dead on his feet, but apparently, his wit was boundless.

"Nothing," Clint answered. He finished up the last of his post-op binge, checked the time, and yawned.

"You heading out?" Natasha queried. She, too, appeared haggard, and it seemed to take all of her vaunted self-control not to simply pass out at the table.

"Yeah," Clint answered, "They should be back from Long Island by now. I need to see them."

"Of course," Natasha agreed, "Get some rest."

Clint nodded absently, threw down enough cash to cover his portion of the bill and tip, bade farewell to the others, and retreated from the restaurant. Manhattan was a mess of broken buildings, alien body parts, and S.H.I.E.L.D clean up crews, but as the senior agent retreated around a corner into an abandoned alleyway, he pushed the concern out of his mind.

First, he'd visit his family. Afterwards, he'd pass out and maybe sleep for a week. Later, he'd help with the clean up.

With the last of his reserves, Clint apparated home, and appeared in their small foyer. He could hear a news broadcaster filtering from the living room, and a running shower overhead, and he could smell freshly baked cookies from the kitchen.

He was home.

From the living room, Violet appeared in front of him, petite, tired but smiling, arms outstretched. Clint fell into them without hesitation, held his wife close, and breathed in the scent of her, certain there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Welcome home," Vi murmured, kisses on his cheeks and her fingers through his hair, "You look exhausted. Have you eaten?"

As she spoke, Clint was guided into the living room, where he flopped gracelessly onto the couch, tugged his wife into his lap, and held her close. He thought he could fall asleep there, and he did just that, with the last thing he was aware of the press of Vi's lips against his own.