Story narrated according to Clint's POV.

Enjoy! ^_^

My nostalgic memories of this place are the scarcity of people and the quietness of the town during the day which made us children indulging in various kinds of mischief. Then, I remember the very green grass on the gently sloppy hills and between them the valleys through which streams with silver clear water flowed with almost musical sound. I remember the little rivers where I learnt to swim along with my friends, and bathing under the shower of small waterfalls. And when it poured rained and thunders tore the town's quietness we were eagerly waiting for it to stop so that the setting sun in the west over the hills made twin rainbows across the sky and we'd be betting about who'd fetch a pot of gold at the feet of the rainbows. When it was evening and I'd be running home, I remember the birds chirping, flying all over the sky trying to find their resting place for the night inside the trees. And, in the night, an owl hooting mournfully in the distance was my lullaby.

I recollect the cowherds mowing wheat and rye, and the cowbells of their herds tinkling, as the animals grazing in its farms. Running over the hills of wild flowers and tall grass, or the cereal crops without caring about what was happening around me is one of my best memories. It allowed me to feel free, for a brief moment before drowning in the harsh reality I lived. And also I vividly recall the house nearby where an old reclusive man lived. It had an orchard with plenty of fruit but the fear of him and his shotgun made stealing a competitive adventure for me and my friends.

But what I loved the most were my walks through the forest, all alone. I had this very rudimentary bow of wood that I had made myself put across my chest and I always carried two or three arrows. White hares usually scampered away from my approach. Dragonflies, with transparent, veined wings, buzzed and hovered around me, no matter how much I'd shake them off. Brambles scratched my legs and so I walked through the tall vegetation by stomping on them. Birds chirped up in their nests and when I tried to look up, the Iowa sun blinded me, mercilessly beating down on me like a flaming golden ball. A creek slowly trickled by and I'd take a jump to cross the riverbed, if possible. If it was too wide I'd roll up my pants and remove my shoes, tying the laces of the two together and hang the shoes on my neck as I'd dunk my feet in the cold water. Tiny baby toads hop continuously along my side and I'd kick the water and laugh, watching them hop way scared.

For me, right now, those are no more than just memories. But it's good to see that everything is still the same as it was. I no longer want to create memories only I will enjoy. I carry Francis over my shoulders and he's enthusiastically pointing over at all the things I used to love as a kid. He makes me happy and with him I share my memories, hoping he'll grow fond of this place as much as I did.

"Папа," Francis babbles, pulling his index finger out of his mouth and pointing with his drooled finger at a small bird dropped on the trail on our way back home "bird is hurt."

I put him down on his feet and we walk to check on the small sparrow, quietly chirping "It has a broken wing, bud."

"Can you fix it?"

I shrug and tell him, "Maybe." I pick up the small bird in my hand and extend out my hand at him.

As we walk back to our very modest house I think to myself that we're everything but normal. Most people take some time away to break from their lives' routines and to try out different things they've never had before; they seek for the adventure. Natasha and I are all kinds of different. We take time off and come to our small house in Iowa to meet quietness, privacy and most importantly, to have a routine.

Routines as idiotic as the sunlight entering the bedroom, the light summer breeze rolling in through the slightly open window or the scent of wet dirt; waking up with my arms wrapped around Natasha and finding that she has had a great night of sleep, as I did. Routines hopelessly foolish as waking up to her smile and the touch of her warm lips on mine. I love the laziness that mornings convey me and then I watch her leave the bed and walk to the kitchen. Soon the bedroom is invaded by our two little monkeys, jumping up and down on the bed, much to daddy's misery. I find Natasha at the door, smiling, as she tells us that breakfast's ready and I'm suddenly aware of the scent of just-made breakfast. The TV is on playing morning cartoons and both Francis and Rose leave the bedroom, leaving me and Natasha alone for some brief moments that we enjoy.

When we arrive home, I can't help but to smile at what I'm seeing. Natasha is sitting on the porch swing and Rose is on her lap. Natasha braids Rose's hair carefully as she hums some Russian lullaby. The best thing Rose could have ever told Natasha was that she wanted to take ballet classes. It made Natasha extremely happy, giving the fact that she always loved to dance and that she didn't force Rose into it; it was our little girl's own decision. Still up to this day I smile when looking at Rose, just being the simple fact of remembering of how she got her name. We considered many Russian names and we couldn't agree on one, not even an English name. That's when Natasha's holding our baby girl few hours after giving birth to her that she says Rose. It was the flower I bought her when I found out she was pregnant; I really didn't know what else to do and thought that a flower would calm down a trained spy. And of course, I couldn't contain a reaction when Natasha suggested my middle name as our boy's name. And to think that Francis is three and Rose is seven.

"Мама," Francis lets go of my hand and runs to porch. "Папа and I found a bird."

"Another?" She says, "It better go to a nest on the tree or I'm freeing it like I did with the last ten you found."

Rose giggles and Francis found it everything but amusing. "It has a broken wing, мама. Can we keep it till it gets better?"

"I suppose. But that's it, Francis. Once the bird's alright, you're setting it free."

He mumbles somehow defeated. "Okay…"

"And you're not walking in the house like that." She warns him and just then I remember that he enjoyed playing in puddle of mud.

"C'mon, bud" I call him after wrapping a small bandage around the bird's wing and putting it on a cage "let's get you a bath."

When I finished bathing Francis I told both him and Rose to go inside for a little while. Natasha has a look on her face; she knows that I know. I sit next to her on the swing and only ask, "Is it for real what I found in the bathroom?"

A small smile dares to play on her lips as she tells me, "Yes, but it will be our last."

I grin so much that my cheeks hurt. I can only kiss her and then place a kiss on her stomach. "You make me the happiest I thought I could ever be."

Natasha leans forward and kisses my forehead while her fingers played with the hair on my nape, "I never thought it'd work three times."

"You know I'm amazing, babe."

She rolls her eyes and stars walking inside, "I'm going to make dinner. If Mr. Amazing wants to help I'd appreciate."

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I should add that in the comics Clint has a son named Francis and Natasha had a stillborn girl named Rose, on her teenage years.