This chapter took much longer to post than I'd hoped. It took longer to whip into a shape I was okay with posting.

Many, many thanks to Marisa Bennet for her corrections and suggestions.

Disclaimer: I don't own Covert Affiars, or August/Auggie Anderson. I do own the rest of the characters in this chapter.

August Anderson awoke to his unwelcoming visual void. A moment of panic coursed through him as it had every time he'd opened his eyes in the last few days. He listened to the relative quiet that surrounded him – a big change from the commotion of the hospitals. The last two … or was it three? … days had been a challenge. It seemed as if he'd been pushed and pulled from pillar to post. His exit from Landstuhl RMC had been too quick for his liking. He would have liked to have had more time with Alan. He'd felt almost safe with him around.

The ride from Europe had been, as far as he'd considered, a complete disaster. He'd been settled into a jump seat and pretty much ignored for the duration – not totally, food had been offered, and the opportunity to relieve himself, but for the most part the drone of the engines, the muffled groans of his wounded comrades, and the hushed conversation of the medical personnel had been his only companions. To say that he'd been ill at ease would have been an understatement.

The rest of his journey to Walter Reed had been an even bigger disaster. Someone had simply grabbed his hand and led him to the waiting transport. He'd almost fallen down the ramp off of the aircraft and had tripped over something on the tarmac. He'd arrived at Walter Reed in a state of distress. He'd welcomed the medicated slumber he'd been offered.

His treatment at Walter Reed had been much more caring, but he'd met with so many people of various disciplines that his time there was a blur – Occupational Therapy, Physical Therapy, and Audiology had all had a turn at evaluating him, and he'd had another eye exam. The results all told him what he'd come to understand: he was still blind and his other senses were fully functioning.

He'd also met with a Social Worker who had given him a choice of facilities where he could go to learn to adapt to his new circumstances. The social worker had pushed for him to go the VA facility in Hines, Illinois. It was close to his family and family was an integral part of learning to live again she'd said. August had summarily dismissed that option. The last thing he wanted was to be around his family – at least not until he'd become less of a quivering mass of nerves. They'd finally settled on a new facility in Reston, Virginia. It was close to D.C. and he thought that he'd like to remain in there. Anywhere away from Glencoe, Illinois had been his choice.

He'd arrived here mid-afternoon the day before. It had been a fairly quiet journey, far less incident-filled than his previous travels. Once he'd arrived he'd been warmly greeted by the facility's social worker, Beth. She'd gone over the program's goals and timetable, but very little of it had sunk in. Paperwork for admission had been read to him and awkwardly signed. All of that was followed by a quick tour of the building ending with him being shown to his room. Beth had taken a good bit of time to show him where things were in it: twin bed, desk, four drawer dresser, small closet, bathroom. She'd even shown him where things were in the small, utilitarian bath. And she had helped him stow the things from the backpack the Wounded Warrior Project had given him after he'd arrived at Landstuhl RMC, and the few things that Alan had gone to the PX to get for him.

He'd been left to further explore and memorize the layout of the small room. More like cell, he'd thought once. Then someone had come to lead him to the dining room. The meal had been edible and the process of eating had been less frustrating than other meals over the last few days. He'd been told where things were on his plate as they related to the face of a clock: his meat was at six o'clock, potato at ten, and vegetable at two. His iced tea was to his right at one o'clock. His main annoyance had come from the number of times his fork had reached his mouth empty. He didn't know if the bite had fallen off on its way to his mouth, or if he'd not gotten anything on it in the first place. When he'd decided he was done eating, someone had led him back to his room.

Now, wanting to clear his head of those memories, he sat up on the edge of the bed, and went over the room's layout in his mind. Slowly he rose and padded to the bath. He closed and locked the door behind him. Once again he did not want someone to walk in on his bumbling attempt to get a shower and otherwise ready himself to meet yet another day in the disorienting darkness that was now his. Shortly after he'd gotten dressed in the remaining sweatpants and T-shirt that Alan had picked up for him, someone came to lead him to breakfast.

When he got back to his room, Auggie was informed his service duffel had arrived. Carefully he examined the large bag now sitting in the middle of his bed. It'd just been delivered to him by a military courier. He wondered who had drawn the short straw and had to pack the things from his tent. More than likely it had been Specialist Lovell; it seemed it was his luck to get the grunt work. It should have been Specialist Long, but he was on his way home in a flag draped box. That last day in Germany, when he had found out about Long, he'd almost wished he could have shared the same fate.

With a sigh, his long fingers located the zipper on the bag and opened it. Warily he examined the things on top. His spare pair of boots, he slid them under the edge of the bed; neatly rolled T-shirts and skivvies, those went in the top drawer of the dresser three steps from the edge of the bed to join the civilian briefs that the WWP had provided and the ones that Alan had gone to the PX and gotten; his dress uniform – Auggie sighed despondently – like he'd be wearing that again. Several pair of fatigues finished off that side of the bag. He ran his fingers across the bottom to determine if he'd missed anything. A handful of coins were in the corner and he fished them out. He wasn't sure if they were American or Iraqi, he'd had both in a dish on his footlocker. His footlocker – he wondered where that had gone. Didn't really matter, there was nothing left in it that he'd ever use again now that his few clothes were here. Well, maybe if he had his sidearm he could put himself out of his misery.

He sighed dejectedly and turned his attention to the other side of the bag. On top was his shaving kit. Another pair of fatigues and a pair of civilian slacks, two pair of shorts, and his jeans along with a couple of shirts were under it. Slowly and with great care, he put everything away. Returning to the bag he continued to let his hands explore what was left in it. In the bottom were some towels and the dog-eared book that he'd been reading in his off time, bookmark still in place; and nestled in the corner he found his spare pair of glasses. Another thing he'd never use again. He continued to search the sides for his iPod, the one thing that might give him some small solace. When he could not locate it, he cursed softly and hoped that whoever had it wasn't doing too much damage to his iTunes account. With an irritated groan, he tossed the partially empty duffle bag in the general direction of the closet and sat on the bed. He scrubbed his hands across his face and then ran them over his head. He'd need a haircut soon if he was to maintain his military cut.

"Not a good idea to just toss that duffle bag any old where on the floor. You'll be tripping over it later."

The sound of a soft woman's voice startled Auggie. "Who are you? … How long have you been standing there?" he asked more than slightly embarrassed.

"I'm Marissa McClew. I'm the Orientation and Mobility instructor here," the voice said coming closer. "I've been watching you for a little while from the hallway. Thought that I'd help you unpack a bit; I'm pleased to know that you were able to take care of that on your own. I'm not too happy that you just tossed your bag toward the closet though. I'm going to move it into the bottom of the closet for you, so you don't trip over it later." He heard her move the duffel bag.

"Thanks. I didn't think about the tripping over it part."

"What did you find in your unpacking that upset you?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me. Why are you upset?"

Auggie deliberated for several moments. Then picked up the glasses from where they lay next to his thigh and said, "These," holding his former glasses out toward where the voice was coming from.

"Ah. Won't be doing you much good now will they." Marissa said with compassion.

"Nope."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Are you always this talkative?"

"Nope." Auggie started to relax a bit and almost enjoyed the brief banter.

"I'll trade you," she said as she took the glasses from Auggie and pressed something else into his hand.

Auggie examined the long tapered stick that Marissa had given him. It took a moment, but he recognized what it was – a cane. A white cane just like that kid in high school had used. Anger bristled within him. "I don't want this," he said thrusting it back at her. He'd been blind for how long – five days now? – and someone was presenting him with this symbol of dependence and inadequacy. Damn it! Damn it all to hell!

"It's going to be your new best friend," she stated firmly.

"No. … It's not. I don't need it. I don't want it." He thrust it back at her again, his features turning hard and unyielding.

After a long few moments, she finally took it from him. "Okay. If you want to walk into walls, doorjambs and furniture, and fall into holes in the sidewalk, I can't make you accept this."

As she walked out of the room he heard her sigh and mumble something under her breath that sounded like, 'he's going to be a tough nut to crack.' From the doorway she called back to him, "Lt, Anderson, you have not seen the last of me."

"Ha, I've never seen you and never will," he shot back at her. The finality of that statement caught him off-guard. He picked up the paperback off his bed and angrily flung it toward the wall. Then, after giving himself a minute to cool off, he reconsidered. He located the book on the floor, not far from his foot, and placed it in the closet with his bag. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this new person, but at least he would not be tripping over his things in front of her if he could help it.

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