A/N: Sorry for making you wait this long! My writer's block hasn't lifted completely yet (it seems so), and I hasn't been in the best place in the last couple of days (let's just say that my uncle's family is not good for my mental health). But here's to hoping that the next chapters will come easier now :)
2015
"Ward, I think your kid is broken," Hunter said almost off-handedly–but smirking–as he sat on the couch, vaguely gesturing towards Haylie.
Grant followed the mercenary's gaze: Haylie was sitting on the floor–a pillow placed behind her, just in case–, surrounded by a colorful explosion of freshly unwrapped toys (a side-effect of having a big family), and yet, at the moment her interest was completely occupied by none else than a bigger piece of torn wrapping paper. She held the shiny paper in her tiny hands, shaking it, then laughing when it gave a crinkling sound, as if it was the greatest toy ever.
"She's just…" Grant started with a smile, ready to defend his baby, but then gave up with a shrug. "Don't insult my daughter."
Hunter held up his hands in surrender. "I just say it as I see it, mate."
Not even caring about the Brit–whom Grant kind of liked to consider an annoying, but lovable family pet, which mentality he fully intended to pass onto his daughter–, Grant walked over to Haylie and sat cross-legged in front of her. Seeing her father, Haylie started to shake the wrapping paper even harder, almost bouncing with excitement.
"Look at how silly Uncle Hunter is," Grant said in a cooing voice. "He can't even see how fun the paper is."
Haylie clapped her little hands, then dropped the wrapping paper and threw her weight forward, in an attempt to get closer to her dad, landing with a soft thud. At almost seven months old, Haylie was sitting confidently, but crawling was a skill she had yet to master–although she was right on track to it. Even now, she tried to brace herself against the pillow behind her and push herself forward–with moderate success.
Grant, wanting to spur her on, grabbed the closest toy lying around–some plush dog with colorful buttons that promised different noises–, and dangled it in front of her. With one confident push, Haylie managed to propel herself forward just a little bit, but close enough to him that she could reach forward, grab the paw of the dog, and, giggling, pull it to her–only to try to stuff the paw into her mouth a moment later.
Chuckling, Grant grabbed the baby by her waist, and, the toy still firmly held in her fist, lifted her into his lap, then blew a raspberry on her neck, making her squirm and laugh.
As cheesy as it was, this was shaping to be his best Christmas so far.