Happy Birthday
Title: Happy Birthday
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Wentworth
Rating:G
Summary: RPF! It’s Wentworth’s 35th birthday and he’s still looking good, real good……
Spoilers:
This story will make more sense if you’ve read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde. If not, have you ever wondered how Went manages to look so young?
He leaned down to the car window and thanked his friends again for the ride home. He had drunk enough to slur his words but sober enough to know.
He concentrated on walking steadily to his front door and after just a few seconds fumbling with his keys, flashing lights and a slick beep told him he’d unlocked his car, still sitting on his drive,instead of finding his door key. He grinned and searched for the lock button again.
Pushing open the door, he sighed, it had been a great night, just him, his friends from both inside and outside the industry, and a large private room in a great Mexican restaurant. His closest friends had organised it, desperate to ensure he did more than stay in and play scrabble with just a few of them like last year. They’d made elaborate plans which had been slyly leaked to the media so the Paps had spent a fruitless night outside another restaurant across town. The drinks had flowed with the jokes and the presents and shit.... where were the presents? He relaxed; another friend was dropping them off tomorrow…now he remembered.
He wandered into the kitchen, his ears still buzzing slightly from the music and the general chatter of the night. He had to admit it, his 35th birthday had been the best so far. He flipped the switch on the coffee machine, and wandered over to his laptop, 78 new messages, most of them Ecards by the looks of things. He would reply to them all tomorrow after the lay-in he had promised himself. As he walked back towards the kitchen, and the reassuring hiss of the coffee maker he passed the hall mirror. He stopped, turning from his profile to a full face view. He reached up, one long elegant finger rubbing down his cheek onto his jaw. He leaned into the glass, widening his eyes, lifting his chin, they were right. He didn’t look thirty five, he didn’t in fact look a day over twenty five, possibly with the right lighting, even twenty. A slight, knowing smile spread across his face.
He turned and walked over to a door, and reaching above the frame took down a small key, twisting it in the lock and pushing open the door. It was a closet but a large one, it was bare, the built in shelves empty. The floor uncarpeted. The only thing in there was what appeared to be a full length poster of a man, leaning against the back wall of the small room. His hands reached up to the side of the door and flicked the switch. The light was dim, but now the poster could be seen more clearly. It had been mounted on card, the word Prison Break was printed across the top in the now familiar promotional lettering. The man was him, or rather him portraying Michael Scofield, his break through and much dreamed of starring role. It was one of his first promo pics for the show, he was wearing his prison blues, and the famous Michael stare was already in evidence.
He stepped closer to the image, his fingers reaching up to graze the surface. Moving up and across the blue shirt onto his face, the skin was slightly blotchy, a hint of jowls sagging at the chin, deepening wrinkles travelled outwards from the eyes and others marched across the forehead tracing the path worn by years of frowns. The hair although still short was fully salt and pepper, his hairline showing the first signs of receding, signs that hadn't been there last year.
Michael frowned at this image, he knew he was being over critical, the man on the poster was still in good shape, ok the hands were looking older, his pigmentation darkening slightly, and he was sure he could see hair on the back of his hands that also hadn’t been there the last time he had looked.
He shrugged the guy looked thirty-five, maybe forty, that wasn’t too bad was it? He stared back at the face, no, he looked forty, ok if you were a A-lister, still young enough to play the male leads. But he wasn’t, yet, he needed those extra years, he needed to stay young until he got there. He wanted to fulfil his own ambitions of reaching the top of his chosen profession. He turned for one more look, noticing for the first time the sadness in the eyes of the picture. He flicked off the light and locked the door. Walking back to the mirror he checked his face, smooth as a baby, dark hair framing his perfectly shaped head. He sighed and went to make the coffee.
The deal was still on, he didn’t have a choice and he smiled again, he could do this……..
Notes.
Apologies to Oscar Wilde!
Author: pemphredouk
Pairing/Characters:Wentworth
Rating:G
Summary: RPF! It’s Wentworth’s 35th birthday and he’s still looking good, real good……
Spoilers:
This story will make more sense if you’ve read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde. If not, have you ever wondered how Went manages to look so young?
He leaned down to the car window and thanked his friends again for the ride home. He had drunk enough to slur his words but sober enough to know.
He concentrated on walking steadily to his front door and after just a few seconds fumbling with his keys, flashing lights and a slick beep told him he’d unlocked his car, still sitting on his drive,instead of finding his door key. He grinned and searched for the lock button again.
Pushing open the door, he sighed, it had been a great night, just him, his friends from both inside and outside the industry, and a large private room in a great Mexican restaurant. His closest friends had organised it, desperate to ensure he did more than stay in and play scrabble with just a few of them like last year. They’d made elaborate plans which had been slyly leaked to the media so the Paps had spent a fruitless night outside another restaurant across town. The drinks had flowed with the jokes and the presents and shit.... where were the presents? He relaxed; another friend was dropping them off tomorrow…now he remembered.
He wandered into the kitchen, his ears still buzzing slightly from the music and the general chatter of the night. He had to admit it, his 35th birthday had been the best so far. He flipped the switch on the coffee machine, and wandered over to his laptop, 78 new messages, most of them Ecards by the looks of things. He would reply to them all tomorrow after the lay-in he had promised himself. As he walked back towards the kitchen, and the reassuring hiss of the coffee maker he passed the hall mirror. He stopped, turning from his profile to a full face view. He reached up, one long elegant finger rubbing down his cheek onto his jaw. He leaned into the glass, widening his eyes, lifting his chin, they were right. He didn’t look thirty five, he didn’t in fact look a day over twenty five, possibly with the right lighting, even twenty. A slight, knowing smile spread across his face.
He turned and walked over to a door, and reaching above the frame took down a small key, twisting it in the lock and pushing open the door. It was a closet but a large one, it was bare, the built in shelves empty. The floor uncarpeted. The only thing in there was what appeared to be a full length poster of a man, leaning against the back wall of the small room. His hands reached up to the side of the door and flicked the switch. The light was dim, but now the poster could be seen more clearly. It had been mounted on card, the word Prison Break was printed across the top in the now familiar promotional lettering. The man was him, or rather him portraying Michael Scofield, his break through and much dreamed of starring role. It was one of his first promo pics for the show, he was wearing his prison blues, and the famous Michael stare was already in evidence.
He stepped closer to the image, his fingers reaching up to graze the surface. Moving up and across the blue shirt onto his face, the skin was slightly blotchy, a hint of jowls sagging at the chin, deepening wrinkles travelled outwards from the eyes and others marched across the forehead tracing the path worn by years of frowns. The hair although still short was fully salt and pepper, his hairline showing the first signs of receding, signs that hadn't been there last year.
Michael frowned at this image, he knew he was being over critical, the man on the poster was still in good shape, ok the hands were looking older, his pigmentation darkening slightly, and he was sure he could see hair on the back of his hands that also hadn’t been there the last time he had looked.
He shrugged the guy looked thirty-five, maybe forty, that wasn’t too bad was it? He stared back at the face, no, he looked forty, ok if you were a A-lister, still young enough to play the male leads. But he wasn’t, yet, he needed those extra years, he needed to stay young until he got there. He wanted to fulfil his own ambitions of reaching the top of his chosen profession. He turned for one more look, noticing for the first time the sadness in the eyes of the picture. He flicked off the light and locked the door. Walking back to the mirror he checked his face, smooth as a baby, dark hair framing his perfectly shaped head. He sighed and went to make the coffee.
The deal was still on, he didn’t have a choice and he smiled again, he could do this……..
Notes.
Apologies to Oscar Wilde!