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“What’s the subject today, bard?”
Jaskier looks up to see Vesemir lumbering into the library. The doors shut behind him with an echoing boom, and though it’s been weeks since the sound has actually scared him, it still makes him jump and shiver a bit. Something about it has always seemed so final. He pushes the thought away, opening his mouth to answer the eldest Witcher, but decides suddenly to change course.
“Nothing terribly interesting,” he says, closing the book he’d been reading. It’s only partially a lie; the Zerrikanian martial arts are fascinating, of course, but the author of this particular tome is as boring as dirt. Jaskier has, in fact, met ancient, half-dead Oxenfurt professors of mathematics that are more engaging than this person’s writing.
“Oh?” Vesemir lowers himself into a nearby chair, his usual seat when he joins Jaskier in the library.
Jaskier chews his lip for a moment, a little uncertain, but forges ahead with his thoughts. “I wanted to ask, Vesemir – ”
Vesemir snorts, a particular sound he makes whenever he thinks one of his children is going to say something obvious, and Jaskier flushes. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, though – he’s been noticing, slowly, that Vesemir has started treating him just like he does Geralt or Lambert or Eskel. Like a son. He’d even called Jaskier “pup” the other day, though he’d denied it had happened.
Jaskier continues despite the interruption. “What are you interested in?”
Vesemir quirks a brow. “Killing monsters,” he deadpans, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“Well, yes, obviously,” he huffs. “Surely, you’ve got a hobby besides that.”
“Not really.”
Jaskier huffs again. “C’mon. Even Geralt has a hobby outside of the things required for the Path.”
Vesemir’s quirked brow raises further and he smirks, and Jaskier flushes scarlet from his collar to his hairline.
“Besides me,” he mutters. “He likes to play card games.”
“I know what his hobbies are, bard,” Vesemir chuckles. “I raised him. All of them. Beside anything to do with you, Eskel likes to read, and Lambert gambles. Poorly.”
Jaskier has to chuckle at that. It’s true; Lambert likes to gamble – usually dice games – and he’s terrible at it. Though, Jaskier thinks, his chances would be better if he weren’t playing against his own kind or someone who’s been trained to read a room. He probably does fine in taverns on the Path. Here though, against his brothers, against Jaskier? He’s awful.
“So,” Jaskier presses. “They all have hobbies. You’ve got to have something.”
Vesemir sighs, sounding very put upon, and says, almost too quietly for Jaskier to catch, “Gardening.”
“Gardening,” Jaskier repeats. “Is there even anywhere to garden, here?”
Vesemir suddenly seems a little tense. “Not really.”
“Hm.” Jaskier taps a finger against his chin. He swears he remembers seeing a little glass building, something like a greenhouse, out toward the more abandoned parts of the castle. “Well. Tell me about your favorite things to grow, then.”
Vesemir blinks at him, and Jaskier just grins back. He knows that Vesemir, as gruff and unaffected as he acts, is just as weak against Jaskier’s beaming smile as the other three. The eldest Witcher sighs and caves.
“There’s a book in the back,” he says. “Green cover, only about as tall as your palm. Doesn’t have a title.”
Jaskier jumps up to go find the book. It’s easy enough; the colored cover makes it stick out amongst the brown and black leather of the tomes around it. Vesemir practically snatches it from his hand when he brings it back, but Jaskier doesn’t mention it, just plops himself back down into his seat and perches his chin on his hand.
“Well?”
Vesemir sighs again, but opens the book. “It’s very hard to get it to grow anywhere,” he starts. “But it’s got beautiful flowers if you can get it to bloom.”
Two days later, Jaskier corners Geralt after their small maintenance chores are finished.
“I need your help,” he starts.
Geralt tips his head, an acknowledgement. “Go on,” he murmurs.
“Well,” Jaskier can’t help the smile that creeps across his face. “I was talking to Vesemir.”
Geralt’s eyebrows raise and he gives a mocking gasp. “Were you?”
Jaskier thumps a fist against his chest, knowing Geralt will hardly feel it. “Shut up, I know,” he says. “Anyway. Did you know he likes to garden?”
Geralt hums. “Not really,” he says, slowly. “But it makes sense. What is this about, bard?”
Jaskier’s smile widens. “There’s an outbuilding,” he says, gesturing. “That way. It’s glass. I think it was a greenhouse, at some point, and if it wasn’t, it could certainly be made into one.”
“Alright?”
“Obviously, it can’t be used right now, where it is. But I was thinking – it’s just glass panes. We could move it.”
Geralt tips his head, some kind of realization coming over his face. “You want to move it closer, so he can use it to garden.”
“Yes!” Jaskier barely resists the urge to cheer and jump around. “Exactly!”
“Hm.” Geralt clearly thinks on it, for a moment, before a small smile spreads over his face. “I think we could probably do it.”
Jaskier does pump his fist in the air this time. Geralt laughs and catches him around his waist, pulling him close to kiss him.
“Let’s go find Eskel and Lambert,” he murmurs. “We’ll need their help. I assume you want this to be a surprise?”
“Obviously.”
It takes a few days for them to figure out where they’re going to put the new greenhouse and how to do it. But they get a decent plan cobbled together, and after that, all they have to do is distract Vesemir.
Which is easier said than done, Jaskier finds. He should have expected it, really. Rather hard to get anything past a Witcher, never mind one with nearly two centuries under his belt and a lot of experience in raising rowdy boys.
They decided it would be best if they rotated who was distracting Vesemir. Jaskier is first up; he just has to make sure Vesemir stays in the library long enough for Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert to get the greenhouse dismantled and moved to somewhere hidden. It’ll be much harder to keep it a surprise once they start rebuilding it, but that’s a problem for later.
Right now, Jaskier has a job to do.
The first hour is easy; Jaskier traps Vesemir into a lively discussion about sword making. The second hour is even easier, as Vesemir decides to take a nap in the library while Jaskier composes.
Hours three and four are harder, though. He manages another half-hour of discussion about sword making, but when it seems clear that Vesemir is becoming bored, he has to quickly fish for a different subject. He lands on the history of Kaer Morhen; it kills another forty-five minutes or so, but Jaskier can tell the Witcher is beginning to get a little suspicious already.
When the subject of Kaer Morhen is winding to a close, Jaskier makes an executive decision to hide in plain sight.
After all, maybe if he pesters Vesemir about gardening the whole time they’re doing this, he won’t suspect that whatever they’re up to has to do with gardening. It’s worked for Jaskier before.
“You already told me about your favorite things to grow,” Jaskier says, and Vesemir stops where he was halfway out of his seat. Jaskier bites back his sigh of relief. “What about your least favorite?”
Vesemir looks at him for a moment, assessing, but seems to decide that Jaskier is being genuine – thank fucking Melitele herself – and sits back down. He hums thoughtfully.
“Mutagenic herbs,” he says. “They’re gods-awful to care for, and half of them are so poisonous that it’s dangerous to even plant them, never mind raise and harvest them.”
“Did you help with them?” Jaskier asks cautiously. Vesemir is a bit more open about the processes of becoming a Witcher than the others, but only just.
But the eldest Witcher doesn’t seem offended. He nods. “Back when the school was functioning,” he says, a certain gravity in his tone. Jaskier finds himself on the edge of his seat.
And, luckily for him, this subject keeps Vesemir talking for an extra hour past his deadline.
There isn’t a close call until Lambert is the one tasked with distracting Vesemir.
Jaskier wishes he could say he’s surprised, but he’s not.
Lambert is supposed to be keeping Vesemir inside the castle, away from the courtyards. They decided the best place for the greenhouse was nearby the stables; the sun hits the area for most of the day, even in the winter with the clouds, and it’s got the most space for them to build. All they really have to do is build up a base of bricks to secure the glass panels to, but it’s still painstaking work, making sure that none of the panels break. They only have one greenhouse worth of material, after all.
It’s Geralt that notices they’re coming too close.
“Jaskier!” he whispers. “Go!”
Jaskier doesn’t exactly know what Geralt expects him to do, but he figures he sent him because he’s the best at improvising. He’s made it all the way to the doors, where he can hear Lambert’s voice, a little panicked, and Vesemir’s, a bit suspicious, before he comes up with a plan.
He slips inside the doors and, once they’re securely closed, lets himself fall hard onto the stone. His vision goes spotty and he can feel the tingling burn of scrapes across his face.
Not the most elegant of plans, but it works well enough.
“Jaskier,” Vesemir says, gently, and Jaskier blinks the spots out of his vision to look at him. “What happened?”
“Fell,” Jaskier says, shortly, and if Vesemir sees anything suspect about it, he doesn’t mention it. “Fuck.”
“Hold still,” Vesemir murmurs, and Jaskier does as he’s told. Over Vesemir’s shoulder, while the eldest Witcher inspects his injuries, he catches Lambert’s eye.
The youngest Witcher looks guilty, at least. Jaskier is sure he’ll get a wonderful apology later, but for now, he’s got a part to play. He groans when Vesemir goes to lift him up – it does hurt, actually, but not as much as his moaning implies.
“Come on, Lambert,” Vesemir says. “Let’s get him into a bed.”
“Of course!” Lambert says it almost too eagerly, and Jaskier winces when Vesemir stops to look at him. The moment drags on for what feels like an eternity, and Jaskier is about to open his mouth to say – something, he doesn’t know yet, but Vesemir huffs and turns back toward the stairs.
Jaskier sends a warning glare to Lambert over Vesemir’s shoulder, and is slightly mollified by the way he flinches.
The rest of their plan goes off without any further close calls. Jaskier can tell, however, just before they finish the greenhouse, that Vesemir is growing wary. It gets harder and harder to distract him, as they get the finishing touches done – mostly planting some small things – but Jaskier, who has been assigned as the main distractor, now that they’re so close, manages.
It isn’t until the morning after they’ve finished everything that they run into a slight snag.
They never decided how they were going to reveal their surprise.
The sun has barely risen. Jaskier, Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert are all in the kitchen, arguing in hushed voices about how they’re going to do this.
“Just – tell him!” Lambert hisses.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “That’s so boring, Lambert, really – ”
“I think we should just show him, come up with some reason to drag him out to the courtyard,” Eskel offers, and Jaskier tips him a nod. It’s a viable idea.
“It was Jaskier’s plan,” Geralt murmurs. “He should decide.”
“We did all of the work!” Lambert grumbles.
“Only the building,” Jaskier retorts. “I was the one who distracted him the most, after all.”
Geralt snorts. “He has a point, Lambert. You were the only one who nearly failed at keeping him distracted.”
“Shut up, Geralt,” Lambert snaps. “Look, he’s going to be coming for breakfast soon – ”
“Boys!”
They all freeze. Jaskier, too, even though part of him rails against being called boy in that authoritative tone; part of it is instinct to hold still until he knows what’s going on. A larger part of it is that he’s a little floored by the realization that he’s included in Vesemir’s admonishment. He’s considered one of Vesemir’s boys.
He can’t help the stupid grin that spreads across his face, even when Lambert thumps a fist against his shoulder.
“What on Earth are you all hiding in the kitchen arguing about?” Vesemir’s tone demands answer, and Jaskier sees Eskel open his mouth to spill it out, but he jumps in before he can.
“Not arguing,” he says, brightly. “It was just a spirited discussion.”
Vesemir quirks a brow. “Sounds like the same thing to me, bard,” he says. “But whatever you call it, it doesn’t matter. What’s going on?”
“About that,” Jaskier says, and flushes a little. He looks away for a moment, a little sheepish, before deciding that Eskel’s suggestion is the best option, now. “Can we show you something?”
Vesemir’s brows raise. “What on Earth could you show me that I haven’t already seen in this castle, bard?”
Jaskier grins. “I’ve got all kinds of tricks up my sleeve, Witcher,” he says. “Trust me.”
Vesemir huffs, clearly put upon and exasperated, and steps to the side with a sweep of his arm. “Alright, then. What is it?”
Jaskier beams and practically skips his way toward the doors. Geralt and Eskel follow him silently, but Lambert grumbles the whole way. Jaskier doesn’t miss the dull thud as Vesemir whacks him across the back of his head, and has to bite back a bit of maniacal laughter.
He swings the door open with a flourish and stands to the side to let the others through. Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert all shuffle through awkwardly, trying to duck out of the way. Vesemir watches them with a small frown, then turns that same expression on Jaskier. Jaskier just grins wider and motions toward the stables – where they’ve rebuilt the greenhouse.
Vesemir’s frown deepens, but he looks over. There’s a long, hushed silence, as he takes slow steps down the stairs and across the courtyard. Jaskier lets the door slam shut behind him and follows, the other three tailing him, but shyly.
When Vesemir finally speaks, he sounds…well, Jaskier isn’t sure what he sounds like. There’s something to his voice he’s never heard before, making the usual deadpan tone different, but he can’t pin it. “You three….”
Eskel, apparently, thinks his father-figure is angry. “Vesemir, we just wanted – ”
“Hush,” Vesemir interrupts, holding up a hand. “You three,” he starts again, “built this. For me.”
“It was Jaskier’s idea,” Lambert pipes up.
“It was,” Jaskier agrees. He’s feeling a little on edge, now, unsure of what Vesemir is feeling, picking up on the tenseness of the other Witchers behind him.
Finally, Vesemir turns toward them again. He takes a wide step toward Jaskier and, to Jaskier’s stunned delight, pulls him into a fierce hug.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier bites back the sob that threatens to tumble out of his chest and squeezes the eldest Witcher as tightly as he can.
For the rest of the winter season, the most reliable place to find Vesemir is inside the greenhouse, tending to the things they planted for him as well as things he planted himself. It isn’t until spring is nearly upon them, though, that Vesemir speaks of it again.
“Jaskier,” he says, over breakfast. He sounds serious, though there’s a familiar twinkle in his eye.
“Yes?” Jaskier puts his fork down and pushes his food aside for a moment. “What is it?”
“Join me in the greenhouse after lunch today, would you?”
Vesemir is smiling, the smallest little upturn of his lips, and Jaskier feels like he might faint from happiness.
“Of course.”
He spends the rest of the day until lunch composing, but he’s distracted. Every few minutes he has to shake himself out of his thoughts and return to his music, and it gets increasingly hard to do it the closer to lunch he gets. Finally, it’s lunch time, and he’s the first down to the dining table. Geralt and Eskel are there not long afterward, and Lambert follows a little slower. Vesemir is nowhere to be seen.
Jaskier practically inhales the sandwich he builds for himself, then dashes out to the greenhouse. He ignores the sound of Geralt laughing behind him.
Vesemir is already inside the greenhouse, as expected. Jaskier raps gently on the glass before opening the door and stepping inside.
“Hey,” he greets. Vesemir turns to him and grins, the largest smile Jaskier has ever seen on the elder Witcher’s face. Jaskier bites back the immediate urge to start writing poetry out loud.
“Come look, bard,” Vesemir says, and steps to the side. At the back of the greenhouse is a single, large pot with what almost looks like a fern inside it. The foliage is bright and bushy, and when Jaskier looks a little closer, he can see brilliant blue blooms crowning the ends of each stem.
Tears spring unbidden to Jaskier’s eyes. He knows that flower; he’s only seen it in illustrations, of course, had never heard of it previous to learning Vesemir liked to garden. But he’s started at those illustrations for hours upon hours, now, wondering.
And here it is, before him, thriving.
He’s sure he shocks Vesemir with the hug. He doesn’t much care. He buries his face into the Witcher’s shoulder and does his absolute best not to sob, clinging tight around his neck. Vesemir’s arms come up around him slowly, patting his back in a comforting rhythm.
And then he murmurs, “Thank you again, bard,” and Jaskier loses his battle against not sobbing into the Witcher’s jacket.