Thanks again to resourceress7 (Marisa B.) for he corrections and suggestions. Just helps to make my writing better.

Disclaimer: I do not own Auggie. As much as I'd like to, I do not. He belongs to the writers of Covert Affairs, and to the awesome Christopher Gorham.

Chapter Three – Into the Darkness

Auggie slowly worked his way down the hall from his room toward the residents' lounge area. Earlier in the week – Monday was it? Hell, all the days seemed to blend into one – Marissa had shown him around the building while informing him of ways to know where he was. She'd also tried to get him to use the long rigid cane again. That time he'd flung the thing across the room with a clatter rather than simply thrusting it back at her. Oh, how he wished that his eyes could just heal and his sight return so that he would not need the things that she wanted to teach him.

Today he knew that she was somewhere behind him, watching his progress; he occasionally heard the squeak of her shoes on the tile floor. His current assignment was to go to the lounge area, locate a specific chair and then go on to the dining room. He was frightened of walking into the unknown that lay before him – but less so than he'd been the day before.

He did not shuffle, but his stride was not his normal one, nor was it confident. The back of his right hand trailed lightly along the cool ceramic tiled wall and offered him a bit of reassurance, a tether to reality. Tentatively he counted off the doors as he passed. Auggie consciously searched for a crack in the tile. When his knuckles brushed over the rough spot, he reached out with his left hand for the wide bar on the fire door. He was not going to find the damn door with his body again. His hand met with air where he thought the door should be. Slowly he took a step forward and collided into something with his right shoulder. Oh, crap. The door was open and he'd just banged into the door jamb. He heard a frustrated sigh from behind him.

Auggie repositioned himself in the doorway and took two short steps forward. From the edge of the door he knew that he was to cross straight ahead and to the first door on his right. He paused for a moment, both listening for anyone coming down the cross hall, and to steel his nerves. He'd frozen here yesterday and hadn't been able to continue the next eight feet. Today, he told himself, he'd make it across to the other side. He took one step, then another. Without a wall for security, he felt the uneasiness rise higher within him. Where was that fearless soldier when he needed him?

That soldier had been left outside of Tikrit, Iraq. Now he was a mere civilian who was facing the scariest thing that he'd ever had to face before: Climbing to the top of the 100-foot-tall maple tree outside his boyhood home when he was six years old on a brotherly dare hadn't been this scary; kissing a girl for the first time hadn't been this nerve-wracking; engaging in his first fire fight had been truly terrifying, but it still paled in comparison to this.

Auggie harnessed the surge of adrenaline that was coursing through him, took a few more steps, and located the wall on the far side of the hall. He did not know how he made it to the door of the lounge, but he did. With trembling hands he opened the door and entered. He cocked his head slightly as he listened for the sounds of anyone who might be in the room. He didn't detect anyone, and slowly felt his way into the room and located an armchair. It might not have been the chair Marissa had wanted him to locate, but it was his momentary refuge. He worked his way to its front. Trembling, he sank into it. He rested his elbows on his knees and placed his quaking hands on his face. Behind him he heard the door open and close.

"Congratulations," Marissa said.

"Why are you congratulating me? I haven't made it to the mess hall yet," he said testily. He took a few ragged, deep breaths, calming himself as much as he could; then rose to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"To the dining hall; I'm going to complete this mission," he announced with what he hoped sounded like conviction to Marissa. Inside he was anything but convinced that he'd be able to find his way to the next location. Mentally he reviewed his instructions: he could cross the hallway here, or retrace his steps to the intersection of the two main hallways, then cross this hallway, and then continue on to the end of the east-west corridor. Or, he could cross this hallway here, turn to his left, go to the end of the wall, make a right, and follow that hall to the end.

Cautiously, he found his way out of the room and straight across to the opposite wall. He found it with his body when he misjudged how many paces it would take to traverse the corridor. He grunted at the impact. Quickly he took a small step back and turned to his left. Trailing his right hand against the wall on his right again, he walked carefully to its end and turned to his right and down the hall to the dining room.

It was the middle of the morning and he heard the rattle of dishes and the sound of a vacuum from the staff who were still straightening up after breakfast, so Auggie only stopped before the double doors and waited for Marissa. His heart was still pounding in his chest like a herd of galloping horses and a knot the size of a beach ball resided in his stomach, but he did feel a small sense of accomplishment, nonetheless.

A moment later he heard Marissa's sneakers squeak to a halt beside him as the faint scent of her perfume reached is nose. He felt her hand brush gently against the back of his; his signal that he could take her arm and she would guide him. Gratefully he grasped her upper arm just above her elbow. Once his fingers curled around her arm, he lost some of his dread.

"Very good, Lt. Anderson. Very good."

"Please call me, Auggie. Lt. Anderson doesn't exist anymore," he said resentfully.

As she began to step out, she let out what, to Auggie's ears, sounded like an exasperated sigh.

No matter how much he wanted her to, Auggie knew that Marissa would not take him back to the refuge of his room. She would be taking him to one of his other required sessions. He would spend the better part of the next hour with a woman who jarred his nerves and infuriated him. He did not know which he hated more, the next hour or the hour directly after the noon meal when he had an appointment with the psychiatrist. The only redeeming part of the day would be in the late afternoon, when he could spend time in the small workout area. Running on the treadmill was like opening up a valve to let out his ever-increasing anger, and gradually replacing it with physical exhaustion. Sure, he would rather have been out running in the fresh air and sunshine, in the rain even, but, for the time being, he would have to be content with the treadmill.

The sound of Marissa's soft voice brought him out of his reflection of the day that lay ahead. "You've done better today. I'm pleased that you didn't have a meltdown. It is rough striking out into the unknown, but you did it well today. How are your toes? You did connect with that wall pretty hard. That wouldn't have happened if you'd been using the cane."

He took a deep breath and, this time, managed to keep his thoughts on that subject to himself. Why was she always trying to thrust that symbol of all that he hated about his current predicament in into his hands? He was going to learn how to cope without the blasted thing.

##########

After the small victory he'd had with Marissa, the rest of the day had gone badly. Very badly. His next meeting had been with the older woman he despised. Well, maybe he didn't exactly despise the woman herself, but the things that she had him do. Once again, one after another she had placed objects in his hands and expected him to identify them and tell her what they were used for. Idiocy, pure idiocy. Eating utensils had been the first things. Easy. So easy he didn't even bother to respond. Then a safety razor with the plastic guard still on it; she'd wanted him to show her how it was used. Hell, was she blind, too. Couldn't she tell that he, with Alan's hesitant assistance, had figured that out days ago while he'd still been in Germany?

Then she'd done something that had struck a nerve. He couldn't even recall what it had been, but it had sent him into a rage. Everything within his reach had been unceremoniously flung. He remembered that he'd gotten up out of the chair to storm out, then froze when he realized that he had no freakin' idea where he was or what might lie between him and the security of his tiny room. He'd stood for many long moments with his fists clenched at his side and the muscles in his jaw, and face, hard and steadfast. He'd fought, and won, the battle with the damned tears that had wanted to spill from his eyes yet again. He was certain that he'd frightened her, whoever she was, because he had almost frightened himself with the intensity of the emotion that struck him so quickly. So unexpectedly.

Lunch had been but a brief respite from his unpleasant morning. It was some sort of special day, and the meal had been grilled hamburgers, and bagged chips. He'd managed that meal without much difficulty, and after the normal fare of the previous days, he had savored his cheeseburger like none that he'd ever had before.

First thing in the afternoon he'd met with the psychiatrist. They'd spent a few minutes just chatting about the things that Auggie had done before – hobbies, work, and family dynamics. It had started out as just a pleasant conversation, then one thing had led to another and Auggie'd felt his blood begin to boil. Again he didn't exactly remember what was said that triggered the intense emotion that had lead him to screaming obscenities at the man, and trying to storm out only to stumble over a chair he'd forgotten was there and walking head on into the wall. The psychiatrist had also mentioned that he wouldn't have tripped or walked into the wall if he'd used a cane. Why was everyone trying to put that despicable symbol of dependence and helplessness into his hands?

He had found the door in the psychiatrist's office and slammed it shut behind him, only to find himself once again in an unknown void. He wound up begging a passer-by to take him to his room. Then he'd spent an indeterminate amount of time curled in a ball on his bed, whimpering like a whipped puppy. He had never, ever, felt this helpless - or hopeless.

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