Disclaimer- I do not own the characters from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. However, all unrecognizable characters (such as the Kuryakin children) are my own original characters.

Summary: A series of one-shots surrounding the lives of Gaby and Illya after they have children. Balancing life with each other, raising their children, and reluctant and unable to let go of their exciting lives as spies. Multiple POV. Not in any particular chronological order.

September 1999

All her life she had always known his hands to be cool, as the one she grasped lightly in both of her own was now. His were so large, his palms and fingers calloused by years of hard work. Though her hands were elegant and slim with long slender fingers, his one still dwarfed the two that held his right. She had always been amazed by how large they were, how strong. Even her two brothers, near as tall as their father, did not have such strong, engulfing hands. Her father had always been gentle with her. There was a sudden return squeeze from his own grasp and she squeezed back, her dark eyes meeting his blue and smiling. Today seemed like it would be a good day for the most part.

"You sing that song for me? That one I like," his accent was thicker than usual, even when it had always been heavy and noticeable; it had been the wont lately. Sometimes he slipped back into Russian altogether, seemingly without his notice. To Katerina, that was okay, because he had taught her to be fluent in the language growing up. There had been periods of time when actual English had been so rarely spoken in the house by her parents that she almost knew Russian and German better. "You sing so well in Russian, kotyonok. I cry."

The song he was referring to was from an animated movie that had come out a few years earlier. She had wanted to show it to her daughter because it was about the missing Russian princess; her daughter had enjoyed the movie, though Katerina had to explain that her dedushka had not been born yet when Russia had princesses, which had thoroughly disappointed Izzy. Through an old habit of hers, Katerina had learned the song in Russian. It was beautiful, if not more so, than it was in English. Her father had always enjoyed her singing and she thought he might enjoy hearing this particular song in his native tongue.

Sometimes it was hard to sing due to its meaning combined with his illness. But it spoke so strongly of her father that she had to make that his song.

"Papa, I've never seen you cry in my life," she teased and reached forward to brush a lock of gray hair back from his forehead. It had been a dark sandy blond in his youth, but even with his illness and his age, he was still unbelievably handsome. The gray only made him look dignified. "And you know I'll always sing for you if you ask."

She started singing, at a volume she would have used if she had been performing in front of multiple people. Katerina had no desire to sing softly or quietly, and if she disturbed the others on the floor, well, too bad. Her father, who had so many bad days lately, had asked her to sing for him.

He had not actually looked at her the entire time she sang, his gaze somewhere off in front of him. His blue eyes, though not as vibrant as they had been years ago due to age, held a thin sheen of tears.

"Beautiful," he said in a low voice as she stood to help straighten and arrange the pillows at his back so he was in a more comfortable position. He had not wanted to get out of bed today, and she was not inclined to argue with him at the moment. That was a job reserved for her mother. Katerina wondered if she would visit today, though she did almost every day.

Maybe they could bring her father back home for awhile. He seemed to be improving, and Katerina knew her mother had been lonely without him.

"Thank you, Papa," she said simply.

"See? I told you I cry," he sounded reproachful that she had teased him earlier.

"Well, I'm glad I can move you so, then," she joked, leaning down to kiss his forehead. She fussed with the pillows again and the blankets. "I'm going to grab you some soda, okay? I need to call Misha and Anton and Mama. I think Mama's going to stop by, Papa. You'd like that right? It would be nice if you saw Mama today. I'm sure you'll want to get out of bed then."

His brow furrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his features. He pushed away her fussing hands. "I'm not invalid, Katja. I'm not child."

Realization hit her and she sighed. Without meaning to, she had used the voice adults sometimes used to try to coax children into doing something. Katerina didn't even know why she slipped into using that tone, when it only came up during his difficult days. And he was having such a good day.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she apologized, looking contrite. "I'm still going to grab you a soda, though. Root beer?" He didn't answer, just glared at the television that had been on mute since she had walked into his room. With another sigh, she grabbed the remote on the bedside table and unmuted it, patting his leg beneath his covers before standing to make the trip to the vending machine down the hall.

Maybe bringing him home would be a positive thing, Katerina thought as she walked the hall, nodding to a male nurse leading a small bald old man in a bathrobe and pajamas to his room. Her father had had bad spells and the need to put him in a nursing home had been necessary. Though he was sixty-eight, he was still a very large and strong man. His fits of rage, spurred by frustration and confusion, were not always prevented by her mother. So much furniture and innocent bystanding objects had been destroyed over the years, though he never once directed the violence to his wife and children.

She had been young when the first few episodes had happened, and she remembered being scared. But over the years, and during the times that the episodes happened less frequently, Katerina had been more scared for him, when she would recognize the anguish and pain in his infrequent bellows of rage. Her oldest brother had always resented their father for his fits—among other things—and never hid how negatively his thoughts for their father sometimes were. She knew his feelings broke their father's heart.

There was a payphone near the vending machine where Gaby held a terse ten-minute conversation with Misha, updating him on their father's wellbeing that day; a brief message left on Anton's answering machine; and an even briefer conversation with her mother, confirming that she would be there within the hour. Finally putting the phone back on its receiver, Katerina bought a root beer for her father. She knew he had always been rather fond of root beer.

Her father's face brightened when she entered his room, his previous sulk seemingly forgotten.

"Katja," he said brightly, holding out his large hand so she could grab it warmly. She set the can of soda on the top of the dresser. "There you are kotyonok. Will you sing that song for me? You know the one I like. You sing so beautifully, I almost cry. Like angel."

Katerina felt her smile become forced, her eyes burning. Blinking to rid her suddenly blurred vision, she tried to soften her smile. "I'm surprised you're not sick of me singing that song, Papa," she teased.

He frowned slightly, letting go of her hand. "You don't sing to me anymore," his frown deepened, his accent thickened. "I hardly see you. But you do not have to sing for your father, I guess."

"Stop that," she scolded, before starting the song again, although pitched at a lower volume than before. There was an old man down the hall that held a hatred for Russians, the one she had seen being led back into his room by the male nurse. She didn't need her father further upset today. She could have told him that she saw him four times a week, for the six weeks that he had been living there. Sometimes he knew, and sometimes he would get angry and upset that she wouldn't see him. Sometimes he would be angry that he couldn't remember. Sometimes he would be angry that she would lie to him, because he wouldn't believe her. So Katerina swallowed that impulse to tell him down. There was no need to upset him.

So she sang again, simultaneously opening the can of root beer for him, which he accepted gratefully. He was quiet for awhile after she finished, idly watching the television in the corner again. Katerina sat at the chair she pulled up next to the bed, flipping through the magazine she had brought. She would have left earlier but she decided to wait until her mother arrived. The silence was comfortable; there wasn't any need to fill the space with unnecessary small talk. Sometimes all her father wanted was someone nearby.

Katerina glanced up from her magazine when her father stirred suddenly. "Did you know that I loved you even during Vinciguerra case?" he spoke, his accent still thick. Katerina had no idea what he was referring to. She had suspected that her father, at the least, had been involved with some sort of law enforcement when he was younger, but her parents had always been tight-lipped about what they did for a living; this was especially true when their children were maturing and had become suspicious and inconsistencies became apparent. "Little Chop Shop Girl, you had me when you pulled me to dance. So quickly I fell." He had leaned his head back against the headboard, his eyes closed. Katerina said nothing; she didn't even know what to say. There had been a handful of times he had mistaken her for her mother, but they were always only brief instances.

His brow furrowed again. "Then you slapped me. Twice. No reason. You were very annoying."

"You were being very annoying, and I was very drunk," her mother spoke from the doorway, making Katerina nearly jump out of her skin. She had appeared unnoticed. Her mother didn't even glance at her daughter, her dark eyes trained on her husband. She entered the room further, depositing her purse and some shopping bags on an armchair before going to sit on the edge of the bed. "What are you still doing in bed, you big lunk? Do I need to call Napoleon to help haul you out?" This was a threat that was issued frequently.

They also happened to be the magic words. "No!" he barked sharply, sitting up straight with an energy he hadn't displayed during Katerina's entire visit. "He would only be smug and insufferable."

He threw back his blankets and was in the process of extracting himself from the bedclothes when he paused, his eyes narrowed on his wife. "You attacked me."

Her mother raised her eyebrows. "You deserved it. I beat the snot out of you."

He scoffed. "I let you win. It was good fight though. Exciting. Get blood pumping."

"I vaguely remember," her mother smirked fondly, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before standing up from the bed, her hands on her hips as she watched her husband find the ground with his bare feet. Katerina said nothing as she let her mother take control. From experience, she knew it was for the best. "Stand up lazybones so I can dress you and we'll go for a walk. Now."

"I need no dressing," was his answering grumble, his feet bracing on the floor as he scooted further to the edge of the bed. "I'm not doll."

"I like dressing you," her mother said simply, and Katerina took that as her cue to leave, sighing heavily as she gathered up her own belongings.

"I'll leave you two alone," she said dryly. "No kissing until your child leaves the premises, please."

Her mother accepted the kiss on her cheek goodbye and watched as her husband rifled in the dresser for a pair of socks. He sat down back down on the bed, mumbling as he bent to put them on. Katerina kissed the top of his head.

"I'll see you Friday, Papa," she said. "That's two days from now. Don't miss me too much."

"I always miss you when you're gone zaika. Be careful on drive home. You don't drive well like your mother," here he looked up fondly at his wife, who gave a small smile in return, her hands still on her hips. "You have habit of drifting too far to right."

"Thanks," Katerina said dryly, and with a final goodbye to both her parents, she left them alone. She was glad her mother came when she did, and, as always, with perfect timing. Her mother had an affect on her father that no one else had, even after all these years and especially now that his Alzheimer's seemed to be worsening.

A better day, she thought. She'd take it.

Hello! I don't know where these ideas suddenly came from, but I decided to write one-shots featuring these two goobers and their children. If I write any other TMFU fics, this story will stand on its own unless otherwise suggested. I have two other chapters drafted at least, and some other ideas. I may be willing to take suggestions later on :)

I have no better title for this story so 'Family' in Russian will have to do.

kotyonok- kitten
dedushka- grandpa
zaika- bunny

If I use Russian words wrong, please correct me!