"Merry Christmas, Dad!" Charlotte trilled, sweeping in the door Christmas morning and throwing herself in his arms.

"Nollaig Shona, mo storín," he greeted, kissing the top of her head like she was still five.

Her fiance followed after, laden with gifts and suitcases. "Merry Christmas, sir," he greeted, not quite meeting Ian's gaze.

It had taken five years before Ian begrudgingly accepted Charlotte's fiance. His version of 'acceptance', though, looked like shooting the occasional murderous glare at the young man and making them sleep in separate rooms when they visited. And if, when she'd announced their engagement, he'd whispered in her ear that she didn't have to do this, he failed to see any harm in that. He was just protecting his baby girl.

And, no matter how many times Emily told him to be nice and stop frightening the boy, he was simply never going to fully trust him. Call him cynical, but he'd sooner die than let his guard down.

Feeling Emily's glare on his back, Ian reluctantly shook the boy's hand (but he did so with bone-crushing pressure and a threatening stare). Emily swept the boy (who seemed to be internally debating whether he needed an x-ray on his hand) into her embrace in apology for Ian's behaviour (though he failed to see the need for an apology and he'd sooner die than give one).

With a scolding look over her shoulder, Emily commanded Ian to take the suitcases up to the guest room while she shepherded the couple into the living room where the rest of the kids were waiting to open gifts with increasing impatience (they might be teenagers now, but come Christmas morning, they reverted instantly to childhood).

When he returned, Charlotte was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him with a chiding look on her face, arms crossed over her chest, disappointed but not surprised.

He held up his hands in surrender, already knowing the lecture that followed. "I'll be as nice as I can," he said before she could launch into her rebuke, "No promises, though."

"You're all bark and no bite," she said with a shake of her head, but she was smiling.

"You take that back."

"You're a toothless old tiger," she insisted. She leaned up to kiss his cheek, laughter bubbling up.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on his tongue as he got a good look at her for the first time that day. She was glowing. "You're pregnant!" he hissed, realization dawning on him.

"Dad!" Charlotte cried.

Emily poked her head around the corner, brow lifted quizzically at the commotion. Seeing Ian looking homicidal, she stepped into the room, ready to mediate and possibly shield the target of his anger.

"That boy defiled our daughter," he accused, jabbing a finger in the direction of the living room where, if he was smart, her fiance was hiding. "I'll kill him..."

"Dad!" Charlotte repeated, voice higher. She tossed her hands in the air dramatically. "You ruined it..." she wailed.

"Lottie, what's going on?" Emily asked, ever the voice of reason.

The shouting had attracted the other kids who were now peering cautiously into the room, curious and also annoyed at the delay in opening gifts. Gemma leaned over to whisper in Matthew's ear and he snorted in what might've been laughter. Declan elbowed his brother, reminding him to be quiet lest they be exiled from the room where they couldn't eavesdrop.

Charlotte shook her head and sighed. She left the room without a word, then returned with a wrapped box. "I wanted to surprise you..." she said, pouting, "But Dad had to go and guess."

Still confused, Emily took the box and unwrapped it, producing two tiny onesies from inside. One was blue and emblazoned with the words I Love My Grandma and the other green with a familiar shamrock (obviously drawn on by hand, specially made by Charlotte to surprise her father). Eyes wide and slowly misting over, Emily looked to Charlotte for confirmation.

She nodded slowly, wide smile spreading across her face. "Twenty two weeks..." she whispered.

Emily clapped a hand over her mouth, blinking rapidly to ward off the full-blown tears, then pulled her daughter into a suffocating embrace.

After an eternity, Emily released her and Charlotte turned to her father looking hopeful, but braced for his reaction. "You're going to be a Daideó..."

He remained scowling in her fiance's direction.

"Your first grandson..." Charlotte continued, watching his reaction, seeing that he was slowly breaking. She pulled a framed ultrasound image from the bottom of the gift, handing it to him. And little by little, try as he might to fight it, he started to warm up.

Emily, sensing the two needed a moment alone, herded everyone back into the living room.

Eyes misty (though he'd never admit it), he looked up from the image to meet his daughter's eyes. "Be honest with me?" She nodded. "Did you want this?"

Charlotte looked deep into his eyes and knew, clear as day, what he was asking, that night all those years ago burning into her mind. "I really did," she murmured. "We both wanted this baby very much." He continued to study her, wary. "Aren't you happy?"

"Of course, I am..." he said slowly. She raised a brow, skeptical. "You're just growing up too fast," he whispered. "You're still five years old, you can't be having a kid. You're still my kid..."

She laughed softly, a little watery. "If it helps, I still like Cinderella and purple worms."

His laugh echoed hers. "So long as you don't bring any worms in the house or your mother will skin you alive." He folded her into his chest. "Is this really what you want?" he couldn't help asking again.

"More than anything," she promised.

He sighed sadly, but didn't let her go.

"Do you want to know what we're naming him?" she mumbled against his chest.

He extended her out to arms length, one brow raised in question at her teasing smile.

"If it's alright with you, we want to name him Ian – Ian Malachi..." Her smile was expectant, full of love for the man who'd raised her, who'd given her everything and was still trying to protect her in his own overbearing, slightly frightening way.

He said nothing, just bringing her back into his arms, a few stray tears escaping. "Don't think this means I like that boy any more than before," he said, trying to keep his voice level and threatening.

Charlotte laughed. "Trust me, I know... You'll have to warm up to him one day, though."

Ian scoffed. "Over my dead body." They both knew he was all talk, though, and so long as he made Charlotte happy, he was (mostly) safe from harm.