This was not his bed.

America sat bolt upright, looking around the unfamiliar room. Where was he? He wasn't home: he was in another country. Why? How did he get here? Where was 'here' anyway?

The room was so hot.

Luggage. His luggage was in a corner, the red, white and blue one that was unmistakably his, unmistakably American. The one he was only allowed to carry on vacations and not on official trips because it was "potentially offensive", even though there was really nothing wrong with being patriotic. So he was on vacation. He'd been meaning to go on vacation, and now he was, only that he hadn't the slightest clue where he was.

His head snapped around when he heard the knock on the door, hand reaching instinctively under the pillow for a gun that wasn't there. No, guns weren't allowed on planes. And he wasn't home. He was...

"America? Are you awake?"

Russia. He was in Russia. He just arrived yesterday afternoon. Russia brought them out for food. At a McDonalds. They toured the city. Russia invited them over to his home, but he insisted on a hotel. And then... then...

He was in a hotel. Russia was outside the door. Outside, knocking. Oh. He had to open the door.

Was this just jet lag? Had he overexerted himself the day before? Was he drinking? Licking his lips, he tasted vodka, but he was pretty sure... pretty sure...

No, he wasn't. He wasn't sure about anything at all. But it was alright, because heroes always got their memories back in time to fight the villain. Villain? Hadn't he gotten rid of all of them? Knock, knock!

The door. Right. He was on the bed, he was at the door, he was falling into warmth.