Only you can save me (A Paul Walker fanfiction)

Chapter Fifteen: Touch my world with your fingertips

I was stunned, to say the least. My heart was beating uncomfortably against my ribs, my cheeks were flaming and my hands turned ice cold. It couldn't be. It just wasn't possible. But as much as my brain was telling me that, my sixth sense was telling me something else. The vagrant bent his head down again, hiding his face from me. I was desperate to look at him again, I wanted to make sure he was or wasn't who I thought he was before I lost what was left of my mind.

"You look like Paul Walker."

I had gotten closer and closer in those few seconds, and I thought I saw a shadow of a smile pass his face when I said it. I think my heart or my senses were sure, just my brain wasn't ready to accept the shock. I scrambled up and stood right in front of him, looking down. He didn't face me, just kept looking down at my coat now nestled on his lap. I couldn't just yank his head up, on the chance that he wasn't who I thought he was he might just deck me. Hell, maybe if he was Paul he might also knock me over. But turning away wasn't an option, at all. 

I slowly extended my hand towards him, an invitation and a plea all at once. Please, come with me. Then he looked up at me properly and I nearly lost it. I had been right, hidden under grime and ... is that blood? was Paul. I didn't know how it was possible and part of me didn't care. I just knew I had to get him to come with me. After a few minutes that seemed a lifetime he slowly took my hand in his and let me pull him up. The height was about right if you discounted that he was bending over slightly. 

I didn't know what to say. We just stood next to eachother, wordlessly. I wanted to cry, scream, hug him, whack him across the head, do a victory dance and just sit and wail in misery all at the same time. Fortunately my poker face was quite well trained, so I don't think he realised any of that. I didn't let his hand go but gently pulled him, while I started walking back towards my vehicle. I didn't have a plan, not really. I just wanted to take him somewhere safe. His limp was bad and he couldn't do more than a few steps at a time so I let him lean on me while trying to process things. Emphasis on trying ... 

I had a house that I was planning to rent out as a holiday home not too far from where we were. There was some furniture and a working fridge and freezer so I bundled him up and took him there, stealing glances the whole way. We arrived under the cover of night in the white and beige coloured flat. I suddenly wished it wasn't as sterile. Paul hadn't spoken at all on the way over here and I felt an absured need to apologize for anything and everything as I showed him around the house. I think that situation wasn't helped by the fact that he showed no signs of ... anything, as he limped around the house behind me. 

We got to the bedroom where a double bed was made with nondescript grey duvet covers and there he finally reacted, limping past me towards the bed. 

"Maybe you should ... "

He didn't even sit, just literally fell down on the bed, pulled his legs up in an almost fetal position and closed his eyes. He was asleep in seconds. 

" ... shower first ..."

I stood near the doorway looking at him, part of me wondering if he had fleas, and if it would be best to just order a new bed for the next day considering the state he was in. Another part wanted to lie down beside him but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I was in a sort of dreamlike state where this whole episode, from sitting on the grass till now seemed like just something my brain had come up with to soothe me. I looked around in the cupboards, knowing fully well there was nothing there but checking anyway. I left the only thing I had on his bedside table: a bottle of water. It seemed completely inadequate. I would go home, get some rest, stock up and come back after he had been able to sleep a few hours, I decided. My mind needed to unwind, badly. 

Best joke I ever told myself ... Eight hours later I was still wide awake and had convinced myself it was a hoax, what had I done? I would find the house empty, I would be mugged when I returned to the house, I should call the police, I should call the FBI, I should tell someone before going back that I had taken a stranger in. I came close to the last bit, asked people for their advice but in such ways that they couldn't possibly fathom what I was talking about and so their answers only fueled my anxiety. Was I really going mad? Desperate for comfort? The stranger wouldn't have budged of course, he had a warm bed for the night. 

I'm good at convincing myself, so by the time I returned I was convinced I would find the house empty, maybe a note left saying thanks. I felt myself sinking back into my earlier depression after the excitement of the night before. Part of me thought I would be mugged, another part of me thought maybe the person I'd taken in was half decent and would be waiting to thank me. In any case, I still brought some food and some extra water, and a box of knick knacks like a mug, a plate, cutlery, and a frying pan. I know I know ... I wasn't thinking straight for four months and certainly hadn't started then so ...

The smell hit me first when I opened the door. The whole place reeked badly and I cursed out loud as I went in. I dumped the cardboard box on the counter and opened every window I could find in the hopes that fresh air would help. The lights were out, the house seemed deserted. Still, to be safe I slowly took the pan out of the box and crept towards the bedroom door which was slightly ajar. I couldn't remember how I'd left it, so I was prepared for anything, holding the frying pan like a tennis racket in front of me, then pushed the door open with my foot.

He was still lying in the same position, on his left side, curled up. It looked as if he hadn't moved at all in all the hours that he'd been here. Slowly I inched my way closer to the bed and saw his eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't a danger to me. The frying pan suddenly seemed a bit melodramatic and I hurried to put it back in the kitchen, got myself a glass of water and came back in. My senses were fighting in a civil war it seemed, one part saying yes the other part saying no, can't be. I bent closer to his face and peered intently at his face. The details added up ... Those crazy long lashes, his eyebrows, the shape of his nose ... But still my mind wanted more, I needed absolute and undeniable proof because it was just too crazy. 

The real Paul Walker had a small, almost invisible scar from a childhood accident near his right elbow. It's a small, perfectly round mark, a bit bigger than a birthmark that you could hardly see, especially when he was tanned it just blended it. I used to make him laugh because I always looked for it when we were together to check how visible it was. It was a perfect way for my mind to make its ehh ... mind up, yet I hesitated a moment. If the mark wasn't there ... I tried to prepare for that pain as I slowly leaned over my sleeping houseguest.

It was as clear as a smiley face, staring back at me. Perfectly round, perfectly in place. I started to laugh and cry at the same time and after a short moment I left the room so I wouldn't disturb him. I felt elated, it was real. 

He was real.