Suum cuique pulchrum est
Walking through his house always brought a little piece of sorrow to Leonard. Sorrow in the way that it was so empty, sorrow in the way that he never saw any of his creations because he was used to hosting diplomats. Diplomats didn't want to see his hundreds of mistresses, diplomats didn't want to know the gruff but cunning doctor had this side interest. They wanted his vaccines, they wanted his medical creations.
Not his other creations, not the ones he encounters when he steps through the door in the back of his study. Not the hundred, no, thousands of tiny face, tiny eyes, tiny smiles staring back at him when he walks through the small door to his private life. Leonard McCoy was in every way a tactile man; his fingers drew patterns over soft velvet as he walked through his back room, over to the vanity and sat down.
It was immediately to work for him; he had acquired a new doll, a blank body, black face and a black wig. He had been working on it for the past few days, painting her green and shading the soft, feminine curves of her hardened porcelain body, shaping the face with colour and highlighting the empty eye sockets with silver, the cheeks with black and the lips with blue. Today was no exception in painting his little Orion, and by the time he had decided to retire from his task, smears of green traces down his hands, muddled with black, silver and blue to create a sort of greyish teal tone down his fingertips.
He got up, leaving the door to his study open and strut through the hallways of his house.
"Christine?" It was more of a demand than a question, and Leonard was tapping his foot impatiently mere seconds after calling for her. If she was a good girl, she would have known to be naked for him, save a night gown, her lines washed away, her make up faded off, her hair up and her piercings out save for the ones down the sides of her spine.
Not his other creations, not the ones he encounters when he steps through the door in the back of his study. Not the hundred, no, thousands of tiny face, tiny eyes, tiny smiles staring back at him when he walks through the small door to his private life. Leonard McCoy was in every way a tactile man; his fingers drew patterns over soft velvet as he walked through his back room, over to the vanity and sat down.
It was immediately to work for him; he had acquired a new doll, a blank body, black face and a black wig. He had been working on it for the past few days, painting her green and shading the soft, feminine curves of her hardened porcelain body, shaping the face with colour and highlighting the empty eye sockets with silver, the cheeks with black and the lips with blue. Today was no exception in painting his little Orion, and by the time he had decided to retire from his task, smears of green traces down his hands, muddled with black, silver and blue to create a sort of greyish teal tone down his fingertips.
He got up, leaving the door to his study open and strut through the hallways of his house.
"Christine?" It was more of a demand than a question, and Leonard was tapping his foot impatiently mere seconds after calling for her. If she was a good girl, she would have known to be naked for him, save a night gown, her lines washed away, her make up faded off, her hair up and her piercings out save for the ones down the sides of her spine.