Setting: After TWS (AU)

You dragged your suitcase behind you as you walked away from the only place that had actually ever felt like a home to you.

But that was just it—it had felt like a home. Until now.

Now, you were unwelcome. It wasn't that your boyfriend Michael was kicking you out; he had actually begged you to stay. He had even dug through his sock drawer and pulled out the very ring he had planned on proposing to you with today— Valentine's Day—that was until you caught him cheating.

There was no denying what you saw; the girl was very beautiful—very memorable. It only made it all the worse that you'd found the two on a date in the same place—the same booth—where you and Michael had shared your first kiss.

Fortunately, one thing that you did manage to grow up to have was common sense; you knew you couldn't stay after that. Nothing would ever be the same. This wasn't something you could fix, nor could a thousand apologies from him.

He'd messed up. There was nothing he could do about it now.

As you turned a corner, you nearly ran right into a man with striking blue eyes. His head was pulled up, casting shadows over most of his face, but those eyes. . .they were as bright as the sky above.

"I am so sorry," you apologized, throwing a hand up as if to stop yourself from running into him.

The blue-eyed man barely sucked in a breath before scurrying off, not even giving you a glance over the shoulder as he disappeared down the sidewalk.

You continued on your way, thinking nothing more of the incident. It was New York, after all, people were tightly packed and bumping shoulders all the time.

However, you did find it quite funny when you turned another corner over an hour later and ran into another man.

"I'm sorry; I'm so clumsy today. I'm just—not in my right mind, I'm afraid." You forced a chuckle, though your situation was anything but comical.

You looked up at the man, only to find that the same brilliant, blue eyes that you'd seen earlier were staring down at you again.

"I know what that's like," the stranger said.

You raised an eyebrow, "So, he speaks." You joked, since earlier he hadn't even accepted your apology before rushing off.

"We have to stop meeting like this." The man replied, clenching his jaw, though you knew it was an attempt at a joke.

You nodded slightly, "Well, there's a chance it could happen again—that is, if you're walking around Brooklyn in circles."

The man shifted uneasily on his feet, tilting his head as he looked down at you, "Is that what you're doing? Walking in circles?"

"Feels like it," you admitted, stuffing one of your hands in your pockets, the other still gripping the handle of your suitcase.

The stranger nodded, then looked down at his feet, "My whole life feels like that."

You raised an eyebrow, which he took notice of when he looked up at you again.

"I'm sorry. That's a depressing thing to say to a stranger, right?" He asked shyly, his own hands in the front pocket of his hoodie.

You shrugged, "Surprisingly, I can relate."

The man chuckled, shaking his head, "I'm not quite sure anyone can really relate to me."

"Why is that?" You questioned, suddenly becoming more interested in what it was the man was talking about.

Well, it was either interest or maybe you were finally just going crazy. You had reason to, right?

"I'm James," the man held out his right hand for you to shake, his words hesitant as if he wasn't sure if that was even his name.

Despite the fact that he ignored your question, you shook his hand, which you noticed seemed to shake slightly. It wasn't everyday that you greeted strangers in the streets of Brooklyn, but then again you were having a strange enough day as it was far before you ran into James.

"My name is (Y/N). Nice to meet you." You forced a smile, trying to pretend as if you hadn't just had your heart broken hours ago.

He pulled his hand away, shifting even more on his feet. You couldn't help but notice how on-edge he seemed, and you didn't want him to feel obligated to continue speaking to you.

"Well, you seem like you're in a rush," you said, "I won't keep you."

James paused before opening his mouth to speak, those blue eyes of him boring through you, "Not so much in a rush as I am running."

"Running?" You raised your eyebrows, "What are you running from?"

"(Y/N), we're all running from something."

Your breath caught in your throat as he stared at you. Did he know? How did he know? How could this stranger possibly know that you were running? Were you running? Your thoughts raced in your head.

"What makes you think I'm running from something?" You interrogated him, folding your arms over your chest.

As soon as your hand left your suitcase handle, though, it fell on its side. James chuckled and knelt down to pick it up.

"This," he answered, referring to your suitcase. "What makes you think I'm in a rush?" He asked you this time.

You sighed an shrugged, "I don't know," you unfolded your arms to take hold of the suitcase again, "You're shaky."

James pulled his hand out of his hoodie pocket again, just the right one, "It's a nervous tic."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure of what exactly he meant.

"I've seen some things; I guess since then, I've been a bit jumpy." He admitted.

"Where were you stationed?" You asked, assuming he'd been deployed overseas, maybe even done a few tours.

Your boyfriend—your ex-boyfriend had served in Afghanistan. He'd had a similar nervous tic, only his hands didn't shake, he just would get lost in a daze sometimes. You couldn't help but think that James had experienced the same thing.

"Excuse me?" James asked, looking confused.

"I'm sorry, that was rude of me to ask. But I just—I know someone who served and I guess I noticed a similarity in your 'nervous tics' is all. Did you? Serve?"

James bit his lip, looking away quickly. You figured you'd upset him by bringing it up, because he squeezed his eyes shut and a grunt of pain sounded from within his throat.

"A-are you alright, James? I'm sorry for bringing it up. I'm usually not so blunt," you explained, though your concern for him only grew as his hands pressed to his temple—the hand that had been hidden in his hoodie pocket covered with a glove.

"No, it's alright." He managed to say through gritted teeth, his eyes still shut.

"Do you need to sit down?" You asked seriously, "Here," you pulled him to the side of the sidewalk to sit on the steps of someone's brownstone.

"Does this happen often?" You continued, unsure of how to comfort him.

"This?" He questioned, still holding his head in his hands.

"The episodes—panic attacks. You said you've seen things and that's what makes you do this." You went on, your hand resting on his back.

Normally, you'd think it would be odd to comfort a stranger, but he didn't seem threatening or even strange.

After finally lightening up, James opened his eyes and stared down at the pavement of the sidewalk, "I wasn't having an episode."

"Oh?" You swallowed, watching him as he tensed up again.

James sat on the stairs, his elbows propped up on his knees, his head in his hands as strands of his hair fell in his face. He seemed broken. You didn't know anything about him, but you could read him; you could see that he was a broken man. You knew you should feel bad for him—you did, truly—but a part of you felt relief that you weren't the only one in the city that was broken. You weren't alone.

He took in a deep breath, pulling his hood off of his head to reveal his full head of brunette locks. He tilted his head to look at you, the sadness in his blue eyes revealing itself.

"I think I may have just remembered something. . .something I thought I'd forgotten."