Pain.
It did not wake him, but it was there, waiting to pounce when he did wake.
It was in his head, his nose, his face…not everywhere, but close.
What had happened?
Perhaps more importantly, where was he?
Slowly, he sat up. He squinted as he looked around the room. Nothing looked familiar; then again, his mind was too fuzzy for him to really "see".
Something warm and cylindrical was pressed into his hand. On instinct, he lifted it to his mouth and sipped. Coffee. Glorious, wonderful, life-giving coffee.
The warmth coursed through his veins, dispelling the stiffness in his limbs and banishing the mental fog.
He looked in the direction that the coffee had come from. A plain, blonde, spectacled man sat there, watching him worriedly.
"Mr. Norway, you're awake," he began.
"Yes. Canada, right? Where am I?"
"In my brother's basement. I'm terribly sorry at the inconvenience."
"May I go then?"
Canada looked rather embarrassed, actually. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Norway."
Norway sighed and looked around the basement. It was a stereotypical American basement: no windows, dirt floors, random (and probably mislabeled) boxes strewn about. The walls showed signs of water damage.
"Mr. Norway," Canada began, "if you'll allow me, I'd like to see how your nose is healing…"
His nose? Right, it had been broken in the fight with America.
Actually, it seemed that Canada was fairly good at setting broken noses. Norway would only have a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, and over time, that would fade. Broken bones did that; scars, for some reason, did not.
Finally, Canada moved away. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Norway, but I really have to go now. There's food and water, if you want some…"
"Thank you, Canada."
The basement door closed behind Canada, leaving only a small strip of light under the door.