America is losing his mind.
That is what it feels like, at least. He has won the war, destroyed Japan, revived his economy, put Germany in his place; America to the rescue, swooping down with one arm extended like Superman. He has proved his superiority over England, shown that old man who is now the leader of the free world.
After all, the world is America's oyster. There is one problem, one problem that constantly haunts him, dogs his footsteps wherever he goes: Russia. Russia is everywhere. America watches in agony, cannot do anything because Russia holds Poland in front of him like a shield. And everywhere, everywhere he flaunts that damned sickle and star.
That is something even more terrifying than Russia himself. Communism leaks into America's brain, terrifying him until all he can see is red.
"I'll help you," America says, throwing his arms out wildly at the next world summit, "anyone who Russia threatens. Anyone threatened by Communism. I'll give you money, supplies!"
Russia just laughs, eyes kind and cold. England and France are too tired too care; World War II has left them stricken and suffering. America grows desperate when he almost loses Greece and Turkey to the Soviets. He grows more paranoid and miserable each day.
"God help me," he moans, slamming his head against his desk when his boss tells him about the Communist revolution in China. The wood is cool and smooth against his forehead, but his face burns as Russia's smug smile hovers in his mind's eye, "God help me."
When America hears of North Korea's birth he vomits into his wastebasket. He emerges minutes later from under his death, pale and shaking and angry.
"Do something!" America snarls, adjusting his glasses, "We can't let him win. We won't."
America faces off with China, who stands, arms flung wide, in front of North Korea. The boy is an angry, tortured little thing, hatechild of Russia and China; the new nation jeers insults at America from behind China's back. Russia crouches behind North Korea and smiles, stroking the boy's hair.
"You're a good boy, da? You do such a good job of driving America insane. Maybe our hero will go jump off a bridge! Wouldn't that be lovely?" Russia giggles and sighs.
"Shut up!" America yells, pointing his gun at China's heart, hoping the supercharged bit of metal will shoot straight through him into the twisted mess of a nation he is protecting. He pulls the trigger but China doesn't move and the bullet merely causes him to wince.
After that, America does not feel safe anywhere, not even in his own house. Russia is always hovering at his doorstep, peering in his windows. At night in bed America can feel cold eyes on him, patient and evaluating.
"America." American is not sure if he is dreaming the voice or not, but the sound is coming from within his own bedroom. He jerks up in bed, pulling his blankets to his chest.
"America," the voice is louder now, and with a sickening chill down his spine America realizes that it is Russia's voice, and it is coming from right next to him, "I want you. I want to beat you. I am going to win."
America stiffens as he feels the mattress dip under someone else's weight. He feels the warmth of a body behind him, easing him back down into a lying position. Cold hands feel their way across his stomach and chest, down to the curve of his hip; Russia's breath ghosts against the back of his neck.
"Go away!" America cries, squirming ineffectually against Russia's hold. His limbs will not move; he is paralyzed by fear. America can feel Russia's smile between his shoulder blades as the nation licks a trail down his spine.
"Hush," Russia whispers, stroking America's thighs. America stifles a gasp when an ice cold hand closes around his cock, "I wouldn't move if I were you, little America."
America feels like a fish out of water, jerked around on the end of a line with Russia's hand on his cock. Long fingers move slightly, caressing, and America jerks backwards against Russia who moans. America curses and arches his back away from Russia, accidently thrusting into the nation's palm.
"Caught between a rock and a hard place, aren't you?" Russia coos. He kisses America's cheek and then bites the place where his lips touched.
"I hate you," America forces out through gritted teeth as his legs are spread.
"I know," Russia says, "But you can't get away from me. Part of me will always be inside you, whether you like it or not."
Russia smiles, poised to strike, right there-
And America screams and screams, and when he wakes up he is sweating. Just a dream, he thinks, relieved. But as he's brushing his teeth, America can Russia's presence, lurking over him like his own personal rain cloud. America shivers and blames it on the open bathroom window. After all, heroes are not scared of nightmares.