A/N: Because I have been feeling very uninspired lately, I thought I would post this up slowly while I work on the ending. This was originally written on the kink meme way back in 2009, but I never got around to finishing it. Here's hoping that I will be able to complete this without another 3 year break. For those who have seen this before, don't spoil it for the new readers. ^_^

Additional note as of 8th Feb 2012: Since having an 'M' rating on a fic about a stalker who drugs the person he's stalking and leaves 'marks' during the night is apparently not obvious enough, I give you this warning:

This story is about using date-rape drugs so that Mr. Stalker can have sex with America while he's sleeping.

It also contains mentions of drug use.

And people drink a lot of alcohol too.

ANY OTHER WARNINGS I NEED TO SPELL OUT?

He had a dream. It was a nice dream, he decided as sleep relinquished its hold on him, because he was pretty sure it wasn't a nightmare, even if the details eluded him. Or maybe it wasa nightmare, a particularly devious one that was hiding its face from him, because, for some reason, his body was aching, even though he didn't have the time to do much the day before. There was yet another boring meeting, awesome hamburgers for lunch (because it was his turn to do the catering), more meetings, and then...

And then?

He frowned, eyes still pressed firmly shut. What did he do after the meeting? What did they usually do after meetings? Dinner? Drinks? Drinks! Right, he probably went drinking, which would explain the blanks in his memory. Sure, he rarely drank to oblivion, but even heroes had off-days, right? And though he could hold his drink (much better than England, hah!), it wasn't impossible for him to get this drunk.

Just as he thought about it, his stomach gave a little lurch and he leapt off the bed, hands pressed to his mouth to contain the nausea. Instead of hitting the carpeted floor, he collided straight into something like a brick wall. "A wall with arms?"he thought hazily as his appointment with the floor was temporarily postponed. But there wasn't time to think too much on it, because the contents of his stomach was desperately trying to escape the confines of his body, so he pushed off and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He didn't get far. For some reason, his legs had decided that it was the perfect moment to mutiny and he just couldn't put them in the right positions (one in front of the other, how hard was that?). Once more, he was caught before he could hit the floor. He was escorted to the bathroom, half-dragged, half-carried, really, where he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and bade farewell to the remains of his dinner.

Funny, he hadn't drunk this much since the Prohibition, and he'd neverhad a hangover this bad before (except for that one time that he preferred not to recall), and... there really wasn't any reason for him to have drunk this much, right? He tried to push through the fog of his memory to find some answer, but his head hurt and his knees were beginning to hurt and his mouth tasted like puke.

A glass of water was pushed into his hand, which he accepted gratefully, rinsing out his mouth then gulping down the rest of the glass.

"More?"

He nodded, offering up the glass. He heard the tap and vaguely, it occurred to him that, oh, right, someone was in the room with him. But then the second glass was offered to him and he became too occupied with slaking his thirst to care.

The glass was followed by a damp towel, which he used to wipe his face. The coolness against his skin banished some of the fog in his mind and he came to the realisation that he was stark naked.

And there was a stranger in his room.

In a flash, he was on his feet, the towel around his waist, spinning around to face the invader. Unfortunately for him, the room was spinning faster than he was and, for the third time that morning, he ended up getting caught as he fell.

"There is no need to be worrying, America. We are friends now, da?"

He couldn't open his eyes, because the room was tilting, but he knew that voice, he knewit. It made his stomach do flips. Or maybe that was just because he'd been picked up like a little child and carried. Before he could gather his wits enough to put up a struggle, he found himself on his bed, the person looming over him like a vulture.

Putting the covers up around him. Tucking him gently into bed.

Something... something was wrong. Something was really wrong, but his brain was protesting the hard work he was trying to put it through.

"I won't hurt you," he thought he heard the person say. A kiss was pressed to his brow (the faint scent of alcohol) and it was oddly comforting.

"Russia, I'd kill you before you can even try," he mumbled sleepily.

He thought he heard a chuckle in reply, but sleep reclaimed him to shield him a little longer from his troubles, and he gladly returned to the fold.