Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Jaster wakes up on the morning of March 28th, he has a singular goal in mind: gardening.

He makes his way to the kitchen and starts the coffee machine. Whistling, he throws open the blinds and cracks open the windows to breathe in the scent of dew and fresh flowers. It’s a perfect spring morning, and the weather channel had declared that the year’s final frost had come and gone.

That means it’s time for Jaster’s favourite part of spring: carefully (and at times, obsessively) tending to his pride and joy— his lawn.

He pours himself a cup of coffee, still whistling, and decides to enjoy it out on the front porch. When he opens his front door, he’s greeted by the fruits (or in his case, flowers) of years of hard work. His budding daffodils, perfectly pruned bushes, and carefully trimmed trees create a stunning backdrop as he sinks into his chair and takes a sip of coffee. Birds chirp in the trees, their pretty songs flitting between the manicured flora. Perfect. Nothing could spoil this.

“‘Morning, Mereel.”

Well, except that.

Jaster scowls preemptively, turning to the source of the voice. Sure enough, his next-door neighbour, Tor Vizsla, is standing on his own porch. The man raises his mug in mock greeting, and Jaster’s frown deepens.

“Good morning, Vizsla.” He replies. It would be rude not to, but he can’t quite keep the irritation from his tone.

Vizsla peers at Jaster’s garden, a hand coming up to shield his eyes from the sun’s early-morning glare. “Your tree beds could use some mulch, don’t you think?”

Jaster grinds his teeth. Vizsla is right, the mulch is looking a bit sparse. “I’m getting to that today.” He looks more critically and his neighbours yard and notices the build-up of leaves in the eavestroughs. Gotcha. “Your gutters look clogged. Did you not get around to cleaning them out last fall?”

Ha. That’ll show him, the pretentious asshole. If Vizsla thinks he can comment on Jaster’s lawn and spoil Jaster’s lovely morning, he can think again. He hides his smirk in another sip of coffee.

“Oh, I think I’ll just clean them out with the hose. I deal with a lot of pests like that nowadays. Just spray ‘em away.”

That motherfucker.

A few summers ago, one of his beloved grandchildren, Cody, had kicked a soccer ball over the fence and into Vizsla’s backyard. Fearing the man’s reaction (which is completely understandable, Vizsla is a right bastard), Cody had hopped over the fence to retrieve the ball himself.

Unfortunately for Cody, Vizsla was outside watering his prized petunias. The poor kid got hosed down on full-blast with the jet setting. He came home soaked and sobbing, babbling about Vizsla had told him to “get off my lawn, you meddling little whippersnapper!”.

Jaster had stormed over and fallen into a heated screaming match with Vizsla over the entire affair. Not their first, and certainly not their last, but it ended with Vizsla spitting out a terse, insincere apology and Jaster vowing that he wouldn’t ever forgive him even if he did offer a real one.

The man in question watches Jaster remember this with a taunting glint in his eyes.

Never mind. Jaster has decided, completely of his own volition, that he’d rather enjoy his coffee inside with the latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens.

Vizsla’s cackling follows him long after the patio door slams shut.

-

But Jaster can’t stay (hide) in the house forever. He has work to do. He needs to defend his “Best Yard” title from the shabuir Vizsla for the third year running.

That was the crux of their unfriendly rivalry. Until the Vizslas had moved in next door, some thirty years ago, Jaster had placed first every year with no competition in sight. At first, he thought it would be nice to have another Mandalorian family next door. He had even brought over a pan of tiingilar (an old family recipe) as a “welcome to the neighbourhood” gift. Vizsla had been somewhat standoffish but accepted the food with grace, so Jaster chalked up it up to him being a man of few words.

It wasn’t until Vizsla stole the “Best Yard” prize out from under his nose, kicking Jaster soundly into second place, that Jaster started to dislike his next-door neighbour.

The subsequent snippy comments, backhanded compliments, covert sabotage, verbal sparring, and general nastiness solidified that dislike into pure, beskar-solid hatred. Vizsla might be Mandalorian, but to Jaster, he’s just as aruetii as everyone else in the cul-de-sac.

And so Jaster would defend his title tooth, nail, and spade.

-

After mulching the garden beds (because yes, he was planning to do that anyways, thank you very much), watering, and weeding, Jaster moves on to pruning.

It’s not that his plants desperately need it, per se, but it does need to get done before they start flowering. He fishes out his chosen tools from the shed; his electric hedge trimmer, his lopping and hand shears, and his pruning saw, then sets about trimming up the larger bushes that grow flush to the house.

Once he’s pleased with his work, he shifts to the trees. For this, Jaster makes another trip to the shed and returns with his trusty ladder.

He can see Vizsla laughing again from his vantage point on the roof out of the corner of his eye, but pays him no mind. So what if his awful neighbour got a shiny new ladder for Christmas? It’s not like Jaster watched the man take down his Christmas lights with distinct, jealous longing.

Nope, never happened. Jaster is perfectly content with his reliable old ladder and cares not for any pretty new hack.

Everything’s going smoothly as he meticulously snips away at his trees. It’s something of an art form, pruning. Knowing exactly what time of year to cut, which branches and how many, and the shifting parameters of care required by more temperamental and delicate species.

Jaster is working on one such specimen when everything goes wrong. He’s outstretched slightly, trying to trim a twig that’s just out of reach with his hand shears when he suddenly finds himself on the ground with a searing pain in his hip.

He’s not sure if it was the reliable old ladder (perhaps too much old and not enough reliable), the straining of his errant arm (more preoccupied with pruning than safety), or damned old age, but the result is the same. Jaster, on the ground, swearing up a storm, hip twisted at an unnatural angle and radiating pain throughout his entire body. It flares hot and sharp into his gut, his ribs, his throat, until it presses tears out of his eyes.

His rescuer is as much of a surprise as the injury.

Tor Vizsla materializes seemingly out of thin air, kneeling in the grass beside him as Jaster curses everything under the sun that led him to this moment. Vizsla’s eyes are keen as he assesses Jaster’s injury, prodding at his hip with careful hands (Jaster always forgets that the man is a retired doctor) that send bursts of pain up Jaster’s side.

Jaster must be losing it. He hit his head on the way down and this is an adrenaline-fueled haze. Because even in the midst of chaos, he can’t help but notice how lovely Vizsla’s liquid-dark eyes are, like freshly tilled earth and wet bark, and how soft his hands are despite calluses from years of hard physical labour.

“Udesii, Mereel,” Brown eyes bore into his. Vizsla sweeps a hand over his forehead, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. “Gar serim.” Jaster closes his eyes, leaning into the touch and the rich way Vizla’s mouth rolls over the mando’a words. “Jate, cyar’ika, jate.”

Yes, it’s the adrenaline and the pain that are making his heart hammer wildly in his chest.

He watches his neighbour look down at his hip again and wince. “This is going to hurt.”

That’s the only warning he gets before Vizsla places a large, firm hand against the swollen, disturbingly protruded joint and pushes.

-

Jaster’s adrenaline theory looks like a promising hypothesis when the trip to the hospital passes in a blur. He makes out snatches of conversations as Vizsla checks them in and as he’s loaded up onto a stretcher and wheeled off to a little hospital room. He answers “No” when the nurse asks if he has any emergency contacts they should call.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Jaster is happy for his kids, and exceedingly proud of them both. But it’s times like these when he wishes they hadn’t moved so far away. The thought is selfish and not at all useful, but he can’t help but think it anyway.

After waiting for what feels like hours, a doctor steps into the room, pulling the curtain closed behind him. His name tag reads ‘Dr. Gilamar’ and his hands are gentle as he examines Jaster’s hip. Seemingly satisfied with his assessment, he turns to Vizsla.

“Are you the husband?”

Vizsla makes a sound in between a cough and snort. Jaster glares at him. The man coughs once more before answering.

“No, just his neighbour.”

“Well Mr. Mereel, you’re very lucky to have such a nice neighbour.” Jaster stops himself from rolling his eyes. Dr. Gilamar turns back to Vizsla. “But sir, I’m going to need you to step out so I can talk to my patient.”

Vizsla’s hand, resting on the railing of Jaster’s hospital bed, flexes slightly.

“He can stay.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them. Vizsla looks as shocked as he feels, and Jaster swallows down his rising embarrassment. He better not be blushing.

“Mereel—"

“Really, I don’t mind.” Jaster cuts in quickly. “It’s not like you don’t already know, since you’re also a doctor. Besides,” he shoots a sheepish grin at his neighbour, “I could use some help understanding all the medical jargon.”

Tor smiles back, soft and obliging. Jaster can’t help but think it suits him. He looks more amiable like this, handsome even.

It soothes the jagged edges of Jaster’s frayed nerves, and he smiles back as he relaxes into the cot. The back of Tor’s knuckles brush up against his arm with the movement, and Jaster pointedly ignores the warmth fluttering across his skin.

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

-

The rest of the hospital visit is another blur, filled with words like subluxation and avascular necrosis. Luckily, the dislocation wasn’t posterior (whatever that means) so there’s little risk of nerve damage, and the CT scan showed no sign of fractures. And thanks to Vizsla’s quick intervention, the probability of him developing nastier chronic complications are minimal.

It’s a promising prognosis. Dr. Gilamar’s treatment plan of medication, a 2-week period of bed rest, and 3-6 months of physical therapy is succinct and straightforward to follow.

He calls Arla and Jango to update them on the situation. He insists that he’s fine, but they insist with equal stubbornness that he needs someone to come down and take care of him. Cody, sweet, stalwart Cody, who just finished his university exams, volunteers himself. As much as Jaster wants to decline, he loves seeing his grandkids and he does need some help, so he relents without further fuss.

By the time Jaster gets discharged, he’s exhausted. Vizsla’s reinforcements have arrived, intercepting them at the ER entrance. Jaster doesn’t remember when his neighbour made the call, but he’s grateful for the help nonetheless. He’s also in no state to argue, so he allows Paz Vizsla, a hulking mass of a young man introduced as Tor’s Vizsla’s grandson, to help him into the truck.

The young behemoth seems endlessly amused by the situation, sneaking glances at his grandfather whenever he thinks Jaster isn’t looking. No doubt, Paz has been poisoned by the elder Vizla’s opinions about Jaster. It doesn’t help Jaster’s less-than-ideal mood, but he doesn’t glare at Tor in retaliation, which his neighbour should take as the boon it is.

Jaster would never blame grandchildren for the sins of their forefather, but he sure as hell will blame the source.

For his part, Tor looks properly ashamed by his grandson’s antics, ears flushing red and swatting the young man whenever Paz gets too bold with his teasing.

Jaster finds himself nodding off on the car ride home, and again when Tor and his posse help him up his steps and into bed. He’s so tired that he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He’s certain that the callused hands tucking him in are nothing more than a dream.

-

Cody shows up the next morning, having taken a redeye flight from the west coast. He greets his grandfather with a traditional kov'nynir, taking particular care not to jostle him with the embrace.

Funnily enough, Tor also shows up to check on Jaster’s condition.

The first time, Cody and Tor circle each other like wary predators, neither willing to turn their back on the other for even a moment. Jaster knows that Cody tolerates the man’s presence solely because he helped Jaster at the hospital. He’s not sure what Vizsla’s deal is.

The second meeting is tense but more amicable. By the third meeting, Jaster watches from his bedroom window while Cody and Tor have a long conversation in the yard as they tend the garden, heads bowed and obscured by a ball cap and a floppy sun hat respectively.

When the pair come back inside, Cody seems much more comfortable with Tor, laughing and grinning easily in Vizla’s presence. Cody freezes as he spots Jaster looking, and gives him the same guilty smile he gave when he was caught digging through Jaster’s tulips as a boy.

Jaster is deathly curious about Cody’s sudden change of heart.

He doesn’t have to wait long for his answer.

-

It starts with tiingilar, as most things do. Jaster is whipping up two big batches, plus chocolate chip cookies, and he has a good bottle of wine chilling in the fruit cellar downstairs.

To say Jaster is nervous is the understatement of the century. He’s a week into his physical therapy, but he won’t be able to do much for at least another five. He’s sick to death of not doing anything, and cooking is light work, so he busies himself with food.

The house on Coruscant Drive had finally sold a week after Jaster’s accident. It would be rude if Jaster didn’t welcome them to the neighbourhood as he’s done for every family over the last fifty years.

Besides, he’s not just cooking for the new neighbours.

Tor has been nice enough to show Cody the ropes on gardening, a uncharacteristic act of kindness since the downfall of Jaster’s typical lawn maintenance would be to Tor’s advantage. Tor seems to have taken a liking to Cody, and the strange duo are often seen working in Jaster’s front yard.

Jaster has tried to pay them both, but they wave him off. With Cody, he resorts to subterfuge and dastardry (Jango added him to Cody’s college fund account ages ago and Jaster has been quietly depositing the money there), but Tor is a tougher cookie.

Jaster is undeterred by any challenge set by Tor Vizsla, given their extensive history, and finds a way.

Namely, food.

After he brings one portion of tiingilar to the new neighbours with Cody’s help (and watches his grandson stammer and blush when a pretty redhead opens the door), Jaster shows up at Tor’s with the tiingilar, cookies, and gift-bagged wine.

When Tor invites him in, his refusal attempts are waved off and he fears for the worst. But a couple of glasses of wine later, he finds himself laughing on Tor’s couch, wondering how he ever saw the man as a reticent bastard.

Tor opens up like a rose in early June— slowly, carefully, then all at once. He has a cutting wit and fantastic stories that leave Jaster in stitches. He discovers that when he’s not on the receiving end of that sharp tongue, Tor is absolutely hilarious.

They trade neighbourhood gossip and stories like old buddies catching up on a night out. It’s a stark difference from what they are: old rivals, learning how to barely tolerate each other. Not for the first time, Jaster wishes they could’ve set their petty differences aside earlier. It would’ve been nice to be friends.

But there are some things he just can’t get over, like the incident with Cody and the hose. It rankles.

Jaster finishes his latest tale about an unfortunate incident involving an eight year old Jango, a frog, a roll of stickers and a shoelace. Tor is chuckling softly, shaking his head in a way that messes up his salt and pepper curls in an achingly handsome way.

He blames it on the alcohol, what he says next.

“Why’d you spray Cody with the hose that one time? I don’t get it.”

Tor blinks. His face pales and he winces when he finally registers the question. “About that…”

He scratches at the nape of his neck. “I apologized to your boy. Genuinely, this time. Felt guilty for years after, y’know. I thought he might’ve told you what went down, but guess not.” Tor pauses, “You know I was in the army before I moved here, right?”

No, Jaster had not known that. He knew the man was a retired doctor, but not that he was ex-military. It made sense. Tor had been so calm and competent the day Jaster fell from that ladder. He hadn’t even thought to question it.

Tor takes one look at his face and winces again. “Yeah, should’ve known Cody would keep that to secret for me. He’s a good kid; kind, loyal.”

“Don’t I know it,” Jaster takes another sip of his wine, fondness and alcohol burning low in his gut.

Tor smiles, then continues, “What you don’t know is that Cody spooked me that day. Scared the living shit outta me. Sent my dumbass straight into a flashback.”

Horror curls thick and sludge-like in Jaster’s gut, smothering the fondness and the gentle haze of alcohol.

“I completely freaked out. He caught me on a rough day, the anniversary of an evac gone wrong. Ambush. Lost good men. Hadn’t had an episode that bad in years. Or since.”

“I’m so sorry.” He murmurs. “I had no idea.”

Tor waves him off. “Nah, it was my fault. Cody was just a kid. But by the time I realized what had happened, the damage was already done. And to make it worse, I doubled down.”

“Tor,” Jaster puts a hand on his arm slowly, and Tor looks up. “It wasn’t your fault either. Just a fucked up day all around.”

“Shouldn’t have doubled down though. That was my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you, if it helps.”

“It does.” He exhales. “Thanks. Seriously. Stupid move on my part. I should’ve just came clean.”

“How stupid of you,” Jaster teases, trying to lighten the mood, “Not trusting the man that hated you with the information that you were having a breakdown.”

Tor stiffens, then relaxes when he realizes Jaster is joking. He huffs a laugh. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so dumb. Ah well, I’ve done plenty more stupid shit when it comes to you.”

Jaster is confused for the second time that night.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, fucking hell.”

“What? What is it?”

“Nah, I’ve said too much. Let the alcohol get to me.”

“What did you mean? Come on, Tor. Tell me.”

Tor tips his head back to the ceiling, as if praying for strength.

“I don’t actually care about lawn maintenance, or the whole “Best Yard” thing. I just did it to impress you.”

Jaster takes a second to process that statement and finds his brain stalling worse than his weed-eater. “What.”

“Christ, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

His brain finally catches up with him. “You thought the best way to impress me was to steal my title and then in the most condescending voice, say ‘aw, maybe next year’?”

Tor buries his head in his hands with a groan. “In my defence, I thought it would work. We’ve just established exactly how dumb I am.”

Jaster laughs. He can’t help it. It bubbles over like champagne and spills out until he’s wheezing and clutching at his sides. Tor looks miffed at first, but then joins in, chuckling in that deep, warm way that sends butterflies fluttering in Jaster’s stomach.

He can’t blame this on the alcohol, if anyone asks. Jaster is stone-cold sober when he leans in, telegraphing every movement. His lips brush against Tor’s, and his eyes flutter shut when Tor closes the last bit of the distance and kisses him.

It’s gentle and sweet. Tor tastes like wine and chocolate and tiingilar spices. His hand comes up to rest against Jaster’s jaw, thumb swiping over his cheek.

It’s intoxicating. It’s invigorating. It’s over too soon.

Tor pulls back, panting heavily, dragging a broken whimper from Jaster as he does.

“Haar'chak, cyar’ika.” Tor groans against his mouth before pulling him back in for a heated kiss.

This kiss is different, and so much more delicious. Tor’s hand gets tangled in his hair, making him gasp against his mouth. Tor swallows the sound down greedily, and Jaster takes the opportunity to swipe his tongue across the man’s bottom lip. It earns him a firm tug on his scalp that leaves him dizzy and wanting.

Jaster is 76 years old, but he feels 17 again: desperate to get closer to the man he’s kissing.

Jaster is next to break the kiss, chest heaving as he presses his forehead into Tor’s. They stay there for a while, just breathing each other in.

“Will you come over for dinner on Friday? The whole family’s coming down. I’d love for them to meet you. Properly.”

He’d been thinking about it, of course. Wants to put the past behind them. Wants Tor to meet his other grandchildren, and vice-versa.

Tor smiles and presses another kiss to Jaster’s lips.

“I’d love to.”

-

Dinner is a quiet affair, save for the clinking of silverware on fine china and hissed whispers as the Fett-Mereel household shares a family meal with one Tor Vizsla.

Tor sits, arms folded over his chest in a blatant display of self-assured confidence. The asshole is basking in the awkwardness he’s caused and seems perfectly content to let Jaster’s family glare daggers at him. More than content, actually. Jaster eyes him suspiciously. Tor smirks at him, before leaning in.

“Once you’ve healed from your accident, we should test out your hip. Y’know, make sure everything’s in…” He trails off, eyes flickering to Jaster’s lap, “good working condition.”

Jaster cocks a brow. “Think you could keep up with me, old man?”

“I know I could.” Tor’s smile is salacious, and Jaster finds himself drawn to the mischievous twinkle in his eye. “With the help of a little blue pill.”

If the dinner table wasn’t quiet before, it’s silent now. Then, it explodes in pandemonium.

“EW!”

“DAD!”

“MY EARS!”

“STOP, I DON’T WANNA THINK ABOUT THAT!”

“YUCK, GRANDPA!”

“THAT’S SO NASTY!”

“MY EYES!”

As everyone devolves into screaming and whining about how gross it is that Grandpa is flirting with Vizsla at the dinner table, right in front of the salad, Tor catches Jaster’s eye and winks.

-

(Later, he finds out that Fox, his second oldest grandson and one of Cody’s four big brothers, confronted Tor after dinner. Apparently, the young man threatened that if Tor ever hurt Jaster or Cody again, he would pour sand in the his lawn mower and swap his Miracle Grow for weed killer.

It’s endearing, if a little over-protective, but Jaster tells Fox not to intimidate his dinner guests all the same.

Fox makes no promises.)

-

They fall into something of a routine. Gardening with Cody in the morning, physical therapy at noon, and a little date in the afternoon. It’s not every day, because they’ve both got other commitments: kids and grandkids, friends and community events.

But when they can, Jaster and Tor spend the afternoon together. Sometimes they’ll go to a cafe or a bookstore. Other times, they’ll go to the local garden center. The nice one, family-owned, with the artisanal sandwich shop around the corner.

And still others, there are walks around the neighbourhood or talks on the porch, chatting for hours about anything and everything.

It’s on one such afternoon that new neighbour, Obi-Wan, strolls by. The young redhead is on a mission, gripping Tupperware that looks suspiciously familiar, but he slows to a stop when he sees Tor and Jaster on the porch.

Jaster calls him over, and the kid goes, albeit a little sheepishly. He hands over the Tupperware, full of miniature cakes topped with candied oranges and powdered sugar. The young man tells him they’re orange-almond cakes. They make small talk about gardening tips and hydrangea soil pH until the conversation stalls awkwardly.

Obi-Wan shifts from foot to foot, eyes searching.

Suddenly, it clicks.

The nerves, the cakes, the glances.

“Cody!” He calls into the house, and Obi-Wan brightens instantly.

Gotcha.

“Yes, Grandpa— ?“ Cody opens the door and then chokes on air when he spies the young redhead on the porch.

“Oh, Obi-Wan here was just saying that he hasn’t had time to really explore the neighbourhood yet. Weren’t you, Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan, clever kid, sees the inch Jaster has given him and makes it a mile.

“Yeah, I was wondering if you might show me around?” He shoots Cody a bright, sweet smile, and Jaster watches his grandson melt in real time.

Double gotcha.

Cody nods, and Obi-Wan’s smile becomes even brighter, showing off the dimples on his cheeks. “Perfect! Would you like to go now?”

“Sure.” Cody, slightly breathless and blushing like mad, returns the smile full force.

Obi-Wan gives him his hand, Cody takes it, and they’re off. The two older men watch them leave, chatting and walking in perfect time, fingers brushing with every step.

Ah, young love.

Jaster and Tor share a knowing look.

Sure enough, by Labour Day weekend, Cody has brought his now-boyfriend Obi-Wan home to meet the family.

Then, as tradition dictates, they all head down to the town hall at 4:00 pm sharp to hear the results of the lawn competition.

“And the winner is…”

Jaster holds his breath. Tor squeezes his hand.

“212 Coruscant Drive!”

It takes a minute for the news to sink in.

Neither of them won this year. Some interloping newbie had stolen the title. They watch in mutually shocked horror as the winner, one smug Qui-Gon Jinn, walks up to accept his trophy with none other than Obi-Wan Kenobi, his son, trailing behind him with a deeply amused grin. The young man scans the crowd, and when he spots them, his pretty mug breaks a borderline shit-eating grin.

Why that little…

Jaster and Tor take one look at each other and burst out laughing.