Chapter Text
It was monumentally stupid on his part. Vesemir had slipped in the kitchen while making his morning cup of tea.
The radio had been on and that truly odious politician, Stregobor, had started to speak and Vesemir had whirled around to turn the damn thing off. He had no interest in hearing what that walking pile of excrement had to say about anything.
As he’d turned, his socks had slipped on the hardwood flooring, sliding his feet out from beneath him.
He’d just had time to feel a flash of panic. He’d remembered that this was why he’d always insisted his boys wear slippers indoors and not run about in their socks (but he’d been unable to find his slippers that morning and he had really wanted that cup of tea). Then he’d hit the ground with an almighty thud and a crack!
It wouldn’t have been so bad if the tea he’d been so desperate for hadn't been in his hand and splashed unbearably hot water down his leg.
His only stroke of luck that morning was that he’d pulled on the trousers from the night before, the ones that still had the mobile his boys insisted on in a pocket.
An ambulance had arrived forty minutes after he made the call. Would have been there sooner if he didn’t live in the arse end of nowhere.
The first doctor he saw had patronisingly suggested that a man of his age should consider selling his house and moving to a retirement flat. After all, it was very large for one man on his own, and not in an easy location. It would really be a better home for a family.
Vesemir knew that agreeing to appear on that tv program about idyllic country homes was a bad idea. Every so often someone had the cheek to track him down and ask if he’d consider selling. The doctor was now added to his black list.
He had turned to the lovely nurse and declared he didn’t care if he had to wait, but he’d like to be seen by a competent and professional doctor. He outright refused to cooperate, despite the agony he was in, until his wish was granted.
No one attacked Kaer Morhen. Vesemir had renovated that dilapidated stable himself after being discharged from the army. He’d made it a shelter to protect and raise the three troubled boys he’d fostered and later adopted.
It might be a bit large when it was only him, but if he got his way then one day it would be filled with grandchildren. He’d need all the rooms then.
(His sons had so far all failed to oblige on the grandchildren front, despite his subtle hints.)
The next doctor, a lovely woman named Triss Merigold, was much better, though unfortunately not single (which was a pity, he had half a mind to give her Eskel’s number). She was the one who explained to him that he’d need his hip replaced. As she said, it was fortunate the mild burns from the tea were down his other leg. Nothing to stop them operating immediately.
He’d barely had time to call his sons to let them know of the situation before he was being prepped for surgery and put under.
When he awoke, Geralt and Lambert were already there. Eskel had just taken a new job in Aerdin and would be unable to fly in until the weekend.
“We going to have to get you a walking stick old man? Instal some grab rails in the shower?” Lambert had always hidden his worry behind snarky comments so Vesemir wasn’t fooled by the seemingly caustic questions.
Especially as Lambert turned out to be right. The physio and occupational therapist did indeed give him a walking stick and advise him to instal grab rails in the shower. He was very glad that the only stairs in his home were the two up to the front door.
He was dismayed to hear that he wouldn’t be driving for at least six weeks. His sons led busy lives. They couldn’t drop it all to play chauffeur to him. And winter was beginning to set in. Frost had already begun to coat the windows in the morning. A fall outside would be disastrous in his current state.
Like it or not, Vesemir was about to be housebound.
It was going to drive him mad.
After four days in hospital, Dr Merigold gave Geralt permission to take him home. While his eldest son went to bring the car round to the front of the hospital, Vesemir thanked her profusely for the excellent care he had received and quickly double checked there was no way she’d like to dump her boyfriend and date his middle son, Eskel.
“He’s a catch. Loves kids and animals,” he tried to entice.
Triss laughed good naturedly. “He sounds lovely, but my girlfriend would definitely object.”
Damn.
All the same, maybe it was for the best. Though those who met his sons might peg Lambert for the flighty one, the truth was that Eskel tended to be the one to break hearts wherever he went. He seemed incapable of holding down a relationship for longer than four months.
Lambert, on the other hand, had been in a committed relationship with his boyfriend for the past two years. The fly in the ointment was that he’d never introduced said boyfriend to the family, or mentioned him at all. Vesemir was beginning to suspect that Lambert was labouring under the mistaken impression his family believed he was straight. He hadn’t yet figured out how to let his youngest know that he knew about Aiden and that Aiden being a man was not an issue. He was honestly delighted that Lambert had someone in his life he loved like that.
Geralt was also currently single, but still hopelessly morose over his latest break up, for all that it had been over six months ago.
Still, Geralt dutifully took him home and got him settled in bed. He brought him soup with homemade crusty bread and made sure Vesemir took his pain medication. He fetched his father’s library books from the living room and set them on the bedside table. Then he sat and chatted quietly until Vesemir was yawning every other sentence. He sent Geralt away, but his son only left after promising to pop in after work the next day.
It was the next morning that a rather grumpier Vesemir realised that he’d already read all his library books. He tried to fight back his growl of annoyance. It had been a shit day so far.
He’d woken up in pain and managed to knock his pain meds to the floor when he’d attempted to get hold of them. Unable to bend down to retrieve them, he’d been forced to hobble, painfully slowly, to the living room to grab the claw like contraption on a stick that the hospital had insisted on giving him. It had then taken him a good ten minutes to use it to pick up the bottle of pills.
And all this before he’d even had his morning cup of tea. It was when he’d made it to the kitchen that he realised he’d have to ask one of his sons to rearrange the room for him. He was going to have to have everything he was likely to need over the next few weeks at grabbing level. He realised this as he failed to reach the glass bowl he normally used to microwave his porridge. It was kept too far down for him to grasp.
He’d had to settle for toast and jam. The whole experience had left him quite frankly exhausted. Which was why he’d decided to go back to bed and read for a bit before attempting a nap, only to discover that he’d read all his books already.
Fuck!
By the time Geralt or Lambert had finished work, driven to get him and then taken him to the library, it would be closed. He reached for his phone and telephoned the library.
The nice receptionist, Marie, listened to his brief recounting of his accident and agreed that she could put aside some books based on his preferences for one of his sons to pick up for him on their way home from work.
“Would you like me to add you to our Books on Wheels list?” she asked him before he could hang up.
“What’s that?”
“It’s like Meals on Wheels but with library books. We have some volunteers. They visit people who can’t make it to the library themselves and take them books and bring the finished ones back. It’s every Wednesday. I could add you to the list for this Wednesday if you like?”
What a lovely woman! Vesemir wondered if she was looking for a strapping young lad like one of his two single sons? This was perfect. Finally something he wouldn’t have to bother his children about.
“Could you put aside one book for my son to bring me today and then put me on the list for Wednesday?”
“Of course!” Marie agreed cheerfully.
Vesemir was in a much better mood as he sent Geralt a message to pick up his book. No point sending Lambert. Marie’s charms would be wasted on him.
To his great disappointment, when he’d quizzed Geralt on the delightful Marie, it turned out she’d mostly talked to him about her grandchildren.
When Wednesday rolled around, Vesemir had almost forgotten about the whole Books on Wheels thing.
It was with some alarm that he listened to what sounded like a dying chainsaw coming ever closer until a beat up purple monstrosity lurched over the hill and into the driveway.
A charitable person might call it a car. Vesemir was going with moving eyesore.
He watched from his living room window as a young man dressed in a pale blue quilted jacket, yellow beanie with matching mittens, and a pair of tight dark jeans leapt out of the car. He almost fell on his arse as his boots slipped on the ice in the driveway, but caught himself in time and slid carefully to the other side of the car to fish out a large stack of books.
This must be the library volunteer. Vesemir levered himself slowly up from his seat and by the time he made it to the front door, the doorbell had just rung.
“Hello!” the handsome young man greeted him on his doorstep. “You must be Vesemir. Marie told me all about your accident. She’s picked out a great selection of books for you. I’ve read a couple myself. Would give them a five star review.”
Vesemir blinked, stunned.
He didn’t think he’d ever been greeted this enthusiastically by a complete stranger before.
“I… Yes. I am. Give me a moment and I’ll grab the books for you to take back.”
“Do you want me to get them?”
Vesemir bristled. He was injured, not incapable. He wasn’t old. Even if he did have three adult sons over thirty whom he was trying to convince to give him at least one grandchild.
Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because the volunteer hastily added:
“Only I broke my leg a couple of years ago and I remember it always seemed that the moment I sat down, something happened and I had to force myself up again.”
Vesemir eyed him shrewdly. It did appear that the young man was sincere. He grunted, stepped back and gestured to his bedroom.
“They’re on the bedside table,” he told him and then hobbled gratefully to his chair. He really did ache, and the burns down his right leg were beginning to itch terribly.
“Cool,” the young man beamed at him. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. Pleasure to meet you.”
No sooner had Vesemir sat down and Jaskier had reappeared with the pile of books to be returned, than the oven timer went off. The pasty Vesemir had been heating for his lunch was now ready.
“I can get it,” Jaskier insisted, heading toward the kitchen before Vesemir could protest. Clanging could soon be heard. “Can I make you a cup of tea while I’m here? Or coffee? A cold drink?”
Oh what the hell. He was tired and it would save him having to get up again.
“Tea, please. Mugs and tea bags are above the kettle. Just a splash of milk. If you’ve got time you could make one for yourself.”
Even if all he really wanted to do was check out his new books and take a nap, Vesemir believed very firmly in being polite and Jaskier had been nothing but enthusiastic and helpful so far.
“Thank you! You’re my last call so a cup of tea would be much appreciated.”
Jaskier entered the living room shortly afterwards with Vesemir’s pasty and two cups of tea on a tray. Vesemir’s had slightly too much milk for his taste, but he didn’t complain.
Now that he was staying, at least for a short while, Jaskier began to peel himself out of his jacket, revealing a form fitting shirt of the same colour and a denim waistcoat that matched his jeans. Various pins decorated the waistcoat, but otherwise his only jewellery was a silver thumb ring.
Once Jaskier had sat down with his own cup of tea, Vesemir didn’t have a clue what to talk about. Luckily, Jaskier seemed to have no trouble holding an entire conversation by himself.
By the time Vesemir had finished his pasty, he’d learnt that Jaskier had only moved to the nearest town, Ard Carraigh, two months ago. That he’d volunteered at the library as a way to meet people and that he’d found it harder than he thought to move somewhere new where he knew no one.
Vesemir got the impression that he was fleeing from a bad break up, though Jaskier never outright said.
Thankfully, Jaskier then turned the conversation onto books, rather than quiz Vesemir about his own life. This was a topic Vesemir felt comfortable with. He’d always been a bookworm. He’d only got a tv when the boys came to live with him, and when it eventually broke after fifteen years, he hadn’t bothered to replace it.
“I see you’ve read The Skelligan,” Jaskier nodded at the stack of books he’d collected. The thick, hardback volume was at the very top. A daring adventure story about a jarl’s son in search of redemption after killing his half-brother at a feast and being sent into exile. Vesemir had stayed up all night reading once he’d started it, unable to put it down. Which, in hindsight, was why he’d decided that fateful morning to forgo looking for his slippers and ended up breaking his hip.
“You must have been the first to get it from the library, it’s only been out for two weeks. What did you think? Three words or less?” Jaskier looked at him expectantly.
Vesemir thought for a moment. Jaskier may only have been attempting to be friendly, but any conversation regarding books required careful thought.
“Spellbinding,” he settled on.
Jaskier’s smile was so wide, Vesemir was surprised it didn’t split his face in two.
He started quizzing Vesemir on what bits he liked best, though seemed reluctant to share his own critique of the work. Hesitant, almost shy. Though he soon warmed up once Vesemir started discussing some of the other books in the pile that it turned out they’d both read. It came as a shock when they realised Jaskier had been there for over an hour.
Jaskier excused himself, but promised to continue their discussion on Redanian poetry the following week.
Vesemir found himself looking forward to next Wednesday, until Geralt decided to spoil his good mood with a nasty piece of news on Tuesday evening.
His son had brought around some groceries and cooked them both dinner. Yet, while Geralt could never be described as talkative, he was even more reticent than usual.
“I’m being sent to Rinde for work next week.”
Vesemir put down his fork.
“Ah…” He wondered if there was anything he could say that would make the situation better. “Well… it’s a decent size town. I doubt you’ll bump into her.”
Geralt stared fixedly at his plate.
“We’ve been texting… over the last week or so. She wants to meet up while I’m there.” A long pause while Vesemir fought to restrain the outrage he was feeling from showing on his face. “I think she wants to give ‘us’ another shot.”
Geralt finally dared to meet his father’s eyes. If he was hoping for approval then he was going to be disappointed. If Vesemir never saw Yennefer Vengerberg again, it would be far too soon.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? After what happened last time?”
Geralt flinched, making Vesemir feel slightly guilty, but only slightly.
“It’s only coffee,” his son protested defensively. “I’m just going to hear her out. I owe her that.”
His son didn’t owe that woman shit, but Vesemir knew better than to say it.
He’d tried, a few times in the past, to raise his objections to Geralt’s (now ex) girlfriend with him. Each and every time Geralt had gone straight to Yennefer and confessed what Vesemir had said. Each and every time Yennefer made his justified concerns sound like the delusional ramblings of an old fashioned, overprotective parent.
Geralt would meet with Yennefer no matter what Vesemir thought or said, so Vesemir wouldn’t waste his breath.
That didn’t stop him lying awake for most of the night, cursing the day Geralt had first met Yennefer Vengerberg.
Vesemir hadn’t always hated her. At first she’d merely irritated him.
They’d been introduced at a family dinner after she and Geralt had been dating for a month.
His first impression of her was that she was beautiful, strong, highly intelligent and downright rude.
Not once during the entire night had the words ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ passed her lips. Vesemir had spent hours in the kitchen preparing dinner. He’d even wheedled her favourite dessert, gooseberry pie, out of his son to make for her. She hadn’t seemed to appreciate any of it, and when his sons started to clear up after dinner, she’d not even volunteered to help.
Vesemir, who strongly believed in manners, had been unimpressed even then, but he hadn’t hated her.
Yet.
He’d genuinely felt sorry for her when Geralt got cold feet seven months into their relationship, after she’d quietly revealed to him that her greatest desire in the world was to one day be a mother.
Geralt had dropped her like a hot potato after that confession. His issues with his own mother rearing their ugly head and causing him to flee.
Vesemir had given him an earful when Geralt eventually admitted why they’d ‘broken up’ (or rather why he’d suddenly stopped returning Yennefer’s calls and started actively avoiding her).
When they’d got back together, Vesemir had been secretly relieved. Pleased that his son had owned up and attempted to fix his appalling behaviour.
Yennefer had won major brownie points when she’d stuck with Geralt even when tests had made it clear he’d never be able to father the child she so desperately wanted.
After a year of trying to get pregnant, they’d gone to see a fertility specialist and discovered they were both considered infertile.
Vesemir’s understanding of fertility treatments was hazy at best. But from what he understood, with intervention there was a chance for Yennefer to carry a child, but not if it was Geralt’s. She needed a man without Geralt’s fertility issues if she were to have any decent chance of getting pregnant.
It would have been understandable if she’d dumped Geralt then, but she hadn’t. She’d stuck by him and Vesemir had warmed to her.
Then she’d ruined it.
Around seven months ago, Istredd, a past boyfriend, had moved into town. Yennefer hadn’t told Geralt he was there, or who he was, but had met up with him several times.
The first Geralt knew of it was when Istredd had accosted him right outside his office and demanded that Geralt do the decent thing and leave Yennefer so she could be with him.
Vesemir wasn’t sure Istredd was completely sane.
The man seemed to believe that the only thing holding Yennefer back from declaring her undying love to him was her worry over Geralt’s feelings if she should walk out on him. As if Geralt’s feelings had ever crossed her mind when she cheated on him with her ex boyfriend!
When Geralt confronted her, she hadn’t denied it. She’d admitted that she was confused over her feelings about the two of them and had thought sleeping with Istredd would help her work them out.
Vesemir wished Geralt had dumped her then and there, for his own sake. If Geralt had dumped her, it would have hurt, but it would have left him some agency, some dignity in the whole sordid affair.
But Geralt hadn’t. He’d waited for Yennefer to make up her mind. Stood by and hoped desperately that she’d pick him. She hadn’t had the decency to let him know her decision in person. She’d written him a damned letter and then hotfooted it to a new job in Rinde!
The only saving grace was that she hadn’t left him for Istredd, instead cutting ties with both men. Not that it helped Geralt much. He was heartbroken and Vesemir had been forced to watch his son act like a shadow of his former self ever since.
Now Yennefer wanted to start the whole affair all over again! And Geralt was tempted! His father could see it.
It was enough to keep Vesemir up all night, grinding his teeth in anger.
This wouldn’t do! He couldn’t allow it! Geralt would be hurt again and his boy didn’t deserve that. Geralt was far from perfect, but he had a good heart.
Why couldn’t he just date someone else? Anyone else? Forget Yennefer and give himself a chance to be happy?
He was still pondering this when Jaskier turned up with his library books.
“Wow!” the young man greeted. “You look tired. I mean…” he stammered and blushed at his social faux pas. “Bad night? Can I get you your pain pills? A cup of tea? Anything?”
“Tea, thank you,” Vesemir told him tiredly, standing back to let him in. “The books to be returned are where they were last time.”
He sank thankfully into his armchair and let the sounds of Jaskier’s chatter wash over him.
Maybe he should try and set Geralt up? Maybe Geralt kept returning to Yennefer because it was easier than meeting anyone else? But who? Marie at the library had been a bust, and even if she hadn’t been in her seventies, happily married and with six grandchildren, would she even have been Geralt’s type?
What was Geralt’s type?
“By the way,” Jaskier’s voice cut through his musings, the young man handing him a cup of tea (again with a smidgen too much milk). “I’m terribly sorry, but Marie has decided to inflict the poetry of Valdo Marx on you. I told her that you were injured and didn’t deserve any more pain, but she is inexplicably a fan. However, I have had the misfortune to be subjected to an awful lot of his poetry, and if you accidentally dropped the book in the fire, you’d be doing the library and the world a favour.”
Vesemir hummed automatically, mind still focused on his oldest son.
Geralt’s only proper girlfriend had been Yennefer, so that was all Vesemir had to go on when determining his son’s preferences.
So, beautiful, intelligent, witty, strong willed and just a little bit mean.
Jaskier’s voice cut through his focus. The volunteer had opened up the book containing Marx’s poetry and was cheerfully reading bits out before doing a hatchet job on the poet’s work. He had a large smile on his face as he gleefully tore apart a poem and stomped on its rhyming structure.
The veil of tiredness was suddenly lifted from Vesemir’s eyes, allowing him to clearly evaluate the man before him.
Jaskier was undoubtedly a good looking young man. Big blue eyes, soft, floppy brown hair and a genuine smile.
He was intelligent too. Not many people could keep up with Vesemir when discussing literature.
And there was no doubt he was strong willed, given that he’d managed to convince Vesemir to let him in and then took over his kitchen on the first day they met.
He watched as Jaskier casually discarded Valdo Marx’s book, leaning forward to tell Vesemir about an up and coming poet called Essi Daven.
Just a little bit mean indeed.
But also kind. He didn’t have to stick around and talk to Vesemir. He didn’t have to make sure that the injured man was OK, set up comfortably in front of the fire with a cup of tea.
“I’ll see if I can find some of her work for next week. She’s not got a book or anything, yet, but I have a few magazines that have published a few of her poems.”
Yes, Vesemir decided, eying up his future son-in-law, he would do nicely.