This was not his bed.

His left hand ached. When he raised it up to see what was wrong with it, he realised that the world was glowing fuzzily because he didn't have his glasses on. Where was Texas?

And why was he hooked up to an IV?

Had he been abducted? By the unfriendly aliens Tony had told him about?

"Ah, America, you are awake."

Oh. It was only Russia.

Russia?

Russia?

America tried to sit up, only to put too much weight on his left hand, sending pain shooting up his arm and causing him to fall back onto the bed. A warm hand on his forehead prevented him from trying again.

"You need to be staying still. Look, your hand is bleeding."

"Where are my glasses?"

He'd half-expected to be denied, but Russia helped him put Texas back on and even helped him sit up while a doctor checked the needle to make sure that he hadn't torn anything. Looking around, it finally sank in that he was in a hospital. Brow creasing, he tried to recall why he could have ended up in one. Vodka?

"Did I get drunk?" he asked, half-speaking to himself. Looking up at Russia, he noted with some unease that Russia wasn't smiling.

And neither was the doctor, who seemed to be going through his charts with the nation.

"Rus...Ivan?"

It was like a switch was turned on. The smile snapped back into position as the Russian looked over at him quizzically.

"What happened?" he asked, glancing just a little nervously at the grim doctor. "What's wrong with me?"

"Mm, well," said Russia, browsing the sheets of paper on the clipboard. "It looks like it is nothing. Just low blood pressure." Those violet eyes caught his for a moment before flicking back down onto the paper. "But we would like to run more tests to make sure."

He found it interesting how Russia didn't seem to want to meet his eye. The doctor, also, didn't try to engage either of them in conversation. So he'd probably already discussed with Russia about whatever they were planning.

"Forget it. I'm fine. It's probably just jet lag and too much drinking," said America casually, dismissively. Because he wasn't going to let some Russian quack doctor poke him full of holes.

"But, America..."

"Can I have this out please? My hand hurts."

Russia's hands closed over his and he was surprised to find that they were warm. Somehow, he'd always expected the man to be cold to touch, considering the kind of environment he lived in and the way he was always wearing a scarf around. But Russia's hands were so warm that he just didn't know what to say.

"America? There's no alcohol in your blood."

His first reaction was to laugh, because, it was impossible, right? If he hadn't been drinking, then why did he feel like he had a hangover? Somewhere, in a dark part of his mind, a voice whispered that he hadn't been careful enough, that this was Russia and maybe, maybe this entire vacation was just a ruse to get him into a vulnerable position. The logical part of his mind reminded him that the Cold War was long over, and that Russia had nothing to gain from hurting him.

But people didn't need any good reason to hurt him, did they? He still had the scars to prove that.

Russia let his hand go, leaving him to frown at the slightly bloodied tape holding the IV needle in him.

"We are investigating the possibility of a gas leak," continued the man, still not quite looking at him. "Because Lithuania was also sick this morning."

Lithuania?

Instinctively, America looked around, but the brunette was nowhere to be seen.

Answering his unasked question, Russia gestured vaguely at the wall. "He is in another room."

"I want to see him."

For a moment, he thought he saw something dark flicker across the Russian's face, then it was all smiles again.

"He is resting."

"I want to see him," insisted America. He would have crossed his arms, but the IV tube was still in the way. "Unless there's something you don't want me to see?"

Russia seemed not to hear, striking up a conversation with the doctor instead. So America threw a pillow at him. With some satisfaction, he watched as Russia stumbled from the force of the pillow, which was way too hard to belong in a hospital anyway. He liked his pillows fluffy.

The doctor shot an irate look at him before turning back to Russia, who had picked the pillow up. A few more terse words were exchanged, followed by the doctor leaving the room. And he had Russia's full attention again.

"Well?" he demanded, not caring that the man was wringing the pillow like he wanted to wring somebody's neck. "What was that about?"

"Is not nice to be throwing pillows at people when they are talking, da?" Russia unwound the pillow, giving it a little fluffing before passing it back to America.

"And it's not nice to talk over someone's head when they're trying to talk to you," replied America testily. "It's also not nice to keep me from visiting a friend who is not feeling well."

This time, he was sure that he saw it, the glint of malice flashing in those violet eyes, but when Russia spoke, his voice retained that same sing-song quality it always had, revealing nothing. "I never said you cannot see him. We will be going when you are ready," stated the man matter-of-factly. "Give me your hand. I will take that out for you."

The IV? "Why didn't you get the doctor to do it?" he asked, cradling his hand protectively.

"He is going to check on Lithuania."

"Don't you usually have nurses to do stuff like this?"

There was amusement written all over the Russian's face, underscored by something a little familiar but hard to place. "We are understaffed," explained Russia plainly. "Are you afraid, America?"

Afraid? How dared he? He was a HERO! "No way! Just take it out already!"

When Russia bent over him to remove the sharp, he caught the faint scent of... perfume? Had Russia always smelt this nice? From this distance, he had a good view of the Russian's face, which was, once more, unsmiling, but somehow gentler for it. Violet eyes caught his and, in an instant, the mask was back up.

"Are you ready to go? I will take you to Lithuania now," announced the Russian, straightening up and disposing of the sharp in a bright yellow bin.

It took him a little while to find his voice again, but when he found it, he made sure it was unwavering. "Yea. Let's go."

If he took the Russian's offered hand, it was only because his legs were stiff from too much inactivity, and he didn't want to embarrass himself by tripping on flat ground. "Lead the way."

A/N:

I remember I was reading this guide to work and travel in Russia around the same time as I was writing this. One of the things mentioned was that Russia has a rather good healthcare system, but not enough of it to go around. Also, folk remedies are frequently recommended at casual gatherings. I can't vouch for anything except that I saw it in that book, so, if I've been misinformed, please do raise it., so, if I've been misinformed, please do raise it.