Chapter Text
Geralt didn’t travel well. Vesemir knew that. He’d been warned by his social worker, and past foster parents alike. Despite having his entire childhood defined by being shipped from place to place, the uprooting, however temporary, always left him feeling unbalanced, and more often than not, ill.
Vesemir had thought that once he moved in with him long term, this part of his life would end as the uncertainty did, but it turned out that his body reacted just as poorly to recreational trips as it did to the mandatory ones.
This particular trip was supposed to be fun, a weekend at the coast as a family, but it turned sour quickly.
It started with the carsickness.
This wasn’t terribly out of the ordinary. For as long as Ves had known him, any car ride that lasted longer than an hour or two would result in the poor boy feeling horribly nauseous, and yes, more often than not puking on the side of the road.
Today Vesemir had gotten nearly halfway to their destination before hearing the dreaded calls from the backseat.
“Ves, Geralt doesn’t look too good,” Eskel said calmly from the middle seat.
Vesemir glanced in the rear view mirror to find Eskel leaning up as close to Lambert’s car seat as he could, and Geralt, eyes slightly unfocused and cheek resting against the cool glass of the window, looking greener than a frog.
“He’s gonna blow!” crowed Lambert from his car seat, only six years old, with no filter whatsoever.
Vesemir didn’t have time to correct the younger boy’s manners, now trying to juggle driving, looking for a place to pull over, and scrambling for one of the trash bags he’d stuffed into the glove box during his reluctant preparations. He was really hoping Geralt would grow out of this.
There was still time, he reminded himself, the poor kid was only thirteen.
His fingers clasped the plastic of the bag just in time, handing it back to Eskel who made short work of getting it opened up and into Geralt’s hands not a second too soon.
“Yuuuuuuck,” Lambert whined.
Vesemir chanced another glance in the rearview mirror, and he watched as his middle foster child— sunk so far into the trash bag that all that was visible was the snowy white crown of his head—hunched his shoulders and brought up another rush of puke.
He rolled down the windows, thankful to see a sign for a rest stop a quarter mile ahead.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Enough of that, Lambert,” Vesemir snapped.
Geralt retched, and he took the turn into the parking lot of the rest stop, relieved when the car was no longer moving. It looked like Geralt was done throwing up by now too, staring dazed down into the trash bag at his breakfast and panting.
“Eskel, why don’t you and Lambert go pick out a snack from the vending machines?” He pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet, knowing a snack never failed to distract the little guy. “You can eat it at one of those picnic tables. We’re gonna take a break from driving.”
Eskel dutifully released Lambert from his car seat, and followed behind as he scurried over to the vending machines, leaving him alone with Geralt. He unbuckled his own seat belt then, and went around to the backseat.
“Here, let’s sit out in the fresh air,” he suggested.
Geralt followed instructions without speaking, going and sitting down on the curb, trash bag still in hand. He let Vesemir trade it for a fresh one, and by the time he returned from throwing it away, Geralt was looking better.
He was still hunched over with one arm protectively around his middle, but he wasn’t quite so green.
“How are you feeling kiddo?” Vesemir sat down next to him.
“Better now.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Still a little nauseous though?” he asked.
Geralt nodded.
“That’s okay.”
Out of all three boys, Geralt had been the hardest to get out of his shell. And any time he was upset, or not feeling well, he retreated even further. He might try to claim he was completely fine, if Vesemir hadn’t seen him throw up himself. Even though he looked like he might be getting ready to throw up again.
“How about I see if there’s ginger ale in the vending machine?”
Geralt nodded again. “That would be good, I think.”
That was the most readily he’d ever accepted help, and Ves didn’t plan on wasting that little offering of vulnerability. “Alright.” He patted Geralt’s knee. “I’ll be right back.”
On the short walk over to the vending machines he was able to get a look at what his other boys were up to.
“Oh shoot, I didn’t press start on the timer. You’re gonna have to run it again.” Eskel sat atop one of the picnic tables, munching on potato chips and watching Lambert run laps around the little rectangle of grass. “Oh wow, yeah, that’s definitely faster than last time. Bet you could do it even quicker though. Maybe if you tuck your arms in.”
That boy was a genius and a saint. He smiled, and his good fortune was compounded when he saw that they did indeed have ginger ale in the vending machine. He purchased a bottle and brought it back to Geralt, who remained exactly as he’d left him on the curb.
“How’s that?” he asked after he’d had a few sips.
“Good,” he mumbled. “Fresh air too.”
“Good, good,” Vesemir encouraged.
“I’ll be okay to get back in the car in just a minute.” He made hesitant eye contact. “If that’s alright.”
“You take as much time as you need. We’re not in any hurry.”
“I was doing okay until we got to the twisty part of the road,” he explained.
“It’s going to be like that for the next forty-five minutes or so.” Vesemir broke the news as gently as possible, but Geralt’s face still went green.
“Okay,” he replied, shakily.
“I think there’s a gas station a few miles down the road. How about we see if they have some motion sickness medicine?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah, that sounds good.”