Title: Liminality
Fandom: Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Rating: PG
Length: ~1,100 words
Content Notes: Some references to violence and de-personification. Set after the movie; general spoilers.
Author Notes: Also written for gameofcards prompt: "If this is all you ask for, this is all you get."

Summary: The asset waits for a long time.

The asset doesn't remember very well. Fighting styles, weapons, the faces and details of targets, yes. The parameters of his mission, yes. Everything else, no. How it happens. Where he is. How he got there. Those things aren't important to the mission. They're forgettable, and it takes so much effort to remember. Better to let it go. Better to let his handlers tell him what he needs to know.

What he needs to know right now: When the operation ends, the asset checks in. If a handler is not immediately present, he returns to one of three safe locations, the addresses of which he has previously memorized. Or perhaps they embed them in his brain; he has no memory of learning them.

Still. When he leaves the shore, the operation is over. He doesn't know why he pulled the target from the river. He doesn't know how he knew where in the water to search for him, or what imperative drove him there. Perhaps that is also embedded in his brain; perhaps "til the end of the line" is a code phrase they gave him once and never took back.

It's easier to forget, so he does.

After he leaves the shore, after he fails his mission (again), the asset checks in.

This becomes a problem.

Pierce's house is already compromised; he doesn't even consider it. The bank is crawling with police officers, so the asset tugs the stolen baseball cap lower over his eyes and slouches away. The second back-up location is surrounded by soldiers in uniform; he removes himself from the area without engaging.

The third back-up is a one-bedroom ranch-style house in Silver Spring, Maryland. He takes the metro to a nearby station and walks the rest of the distance. The street is quiet; no activity. There is no movement visible through the wispy curtains pulled across the windows.

When he finally allows himself to enter, he checks the house. It's empty. He finds no surveillance equipment on his first sweep, or the second. He finds no handler to whom he can report.

He knows that he failed his mission (again). He knows that he will be punished. Neither of these things bother him, any more than the sky bothers him. Things are as they are.

He doesn't understand why he didn't kill his target. There was something --

It feels like a discontinuity in his head, a space where something used to exist but no longer does. He has many of those. But this one was so loud, so vivid when it was there. It's gone now, but for a moment, he had something.

He lost something.

The asset doesn't have anything to lose. Never has, as far as he can remember. Forgetting is easier.

He moves a chair to the corner with the best sight lines and lets the confusion go. A sniper has to be able to wait, patient and still, for hours at a time. He breathes, and keeps watch, and waits for contact.

He waits for a long time.

After twelve hours, it occurs to him that he would be more effective if he tended to his wounds. There is a first aid kit in the bathroom, and another in the kitchen. Either would be sufficient.

He doesn't move.

After twenty-four hours, he notices the first signs of dehydration. There is bottled water in the kitchen, and he thinks it's likely that one or more of the taps will work.

He still doesn't move.

The asset is supposed to check in. He is given a mission; he completes it; he checks in. There are no directives for other outcomes.

He considers the possibility that the operation is not complete. But no, there was a specifically stated and limited time frame. He failed, but the operation is over.

The asset is supposed to check in.

He considers the possibility that he has found the wrong location. The house doesn't look lived-in; there are no groceries left in the refrigerator to rot, no kids toys or paperback novels on the end tables. There is a suitcase with weaponry and cash in a secret compartment in the floor of the closet. It is almost certainly a safe house.

But is it the right one? Or has he failed in this, too?

The asset isn't sure how he could fail at checking in. It's ridiculous. But once the idea appears in his mind, he can't shut it out.

He's already failed twice. Three times, and –

It occurs to him that this is his punishment.

He didn't notice moving, but he is on his feet now, heart pounding. This is his punishment. No one is coming for him.

There will be no one to take his report. No new missions. No forgetting. There will be no one to release him from waiting. There will be nothing but this empty house, and his blood dried on the chair, and the afternoon shadows slowly fading to darkness.

He doesn't move again, but his heart is still pounding. His breath is ragged, choking as if he'd been fighting all day instead of sitting still. He is afraid.

“Until the end of the line.”

He startles, crashing the chair to splinters as he spins around, but there's no one behind him. The house is silent again. The words were only in his head, and he knows that hallucinations are a bad sign, even if he can't remember why.

Maybe they are a code phrase. Maybe they're supposed to unlock a program buried in his mind.

He doesn't remember what they mean.

But they're enough to get him moving again. To the kitchen for water, and the first aid kit. To the bedroom for a jacket to cover the bloodstains on his shirt, and for the cash in the hidden compartment. He can follow the words, even if he doesn't remember where they're taking him.

His hands ghost over the stashed weapons, but don't pick them up, so he leaves them behind. He has a knife, and his arm; those should be enough. It feels like they'll be enough. He doubts that for a moment, then wipes the doubt from his mind. It's easier to forget.

He doesn't remember what the words mean, but that doesn't matter. It's not important to the mission. They've told him everything he needs to know, even if he can't remember learning it.

What he needs to know right now: Follow the words.

He slides through the back door of the house and into the night. He doesn't look back.