To cut down on time, Roadhog strips as they go, chucking his boots off just outside door, lining the counter with golden brass and black leather, and at last letting his fatigues fall in a rumpled pile directly at the foot of the bed, all so that the moment he reaches it there's no order of business left except climbing in. Junkrat would have to either move aside or be caught in the groggy grizzly bear crawl of Roadhog managing the feat the only way he could, while also blinded by the silver mass of hair that's buried his head after being let loose.

It doesn't matter that his elbows knock into the metal walls, still brushing parts of him even as he lies there collapsed on his back; it's a bed, and for that there will be no more complaints. He rolls onto his side, jamming an arm underneath a pillow and supporting his neck with both. His mask--which he'd brought in dangling, leashed to his fingers by a single strap--he places behind him on the mattress where it'll air out over night. Roadhog was guaranteed not to roll over and crush it, able to sleep for hours and hours in the same position.

"Don't care," he mutters honestly, knowing he'd be out sooner than it would matter. Even the novelty of countless channels belonging to hundreds of cultures and species simply could not outdo how glad he was that this long, long day was finally ending.

Though his usual suggestion doesn't come far behind:

"Nat Geo."

Or whatever suitable equivalent.

Hushed narration laced with wind, water, and wildlife ambience.