Work Text:
Generally Valentino wouldn't describe himself as a difficult man. As long as he got everything he wanted, and everything went his way, he was perfectly content to let his afterlife happen. Of course, he encountered his difficult days - they all did down in Hell - but he found that most of that was easily fixed with a trip to the tanning salon. He was pretty certain that vitamin D deficiency was still a thing after death, because why else would he find such pleasure in spending an hour in a room surrounding by massive lamps? And on the more annoying days, he planned himself a trip to the nail salon.
The best thing about owning almost every second soul in their corner of Pride was that Valentino had his fair choice of places to visit without having to make a reservation. No matter how busy the establishment was, they would always make place for him and give him the best service possible, which he appreciated greatly. He would spend an hour of three being pampered, new nails, new claw caps, a nice moisturizing mask on the fur on his legs, a gentle massage to get rid of the tension from long days dealing with people at work who didn't know how to do their job. Naturally, he made sure to leave a tip afterwards - after all, Valentino might be an intimidating figure and one of the most well-to-do men in the area and better than all of them, but he wasn't a monster, and he enjoyed supporting local businesses (especially since they were his own).
And usually being treated like the king he deserved to be fixed whatever irritation buzzed underneath his skin.
Except.
Except recently he found that even a visit to his favorite salons, a new wardrobe, and a set of sparkling golden claw caps with laid in rubies and diamonds didn't do the trick. In fact, Valentino found himself more irritated when Vox had taken a look at his new jewelry and had had the audacity to roll his eyes. Valentino wished so badly that he could have jabbed his nails into Vox' eyes, but with his recent upgrade to the bullet proof glass, he couldn't even manage to get a little scratch in. Valentino missed when the man's head had been a box that he could give a good wack when he got irritated. These days when Valentino lashed out, Vox only had to turn his head to the side, and considering the fact that Valentino's depth perception was shit on the best of days, he managed to hurt himself, as his balance went out the wrong way and he ended up smacking into Vox' desk instead of into the man’s face.
If Valentino had known the concept of embarrassment, he was sure that he would have experienced that emotion during that moment. Instead he had found that considering he was already conveniently bent over the desk, they might as well make use of the situation. He’d always been good at making the best of any situation. And Vox? Well, Vox wasn't in the habit of denying Valentino many things when he pulled out the bedroom eyes. And sex with Vox always brightened his mood significantly.
Alas, that too didn't last. It came to a point where even keeping Angel around for a marathon of clubs didn't help. He found that by the time Angel lost all sense of where he was (usually one of Valentino's favorite moments, because Angel turned so clingy when he forgot where he was, would beg so prettily as Val pulled him in his lap and promised to keep him safe, that he wasn't going anywhere, and Angel would hold on to him like Valentino was his entire world) - he was bored. He watched as Angel's eyes rolled back and he slid to the floor, the last hit of the pipe clearly having been too much, and couldn’t even find it in himself to drag him back up on the couch. So he got up and left. Someone would make sure Angel got home eventually, he thought, as he watched some curious customers peek into the newly abandoned booth, curious about the unconscious pornstar on the floor. And as long as Angel made it back to the studio in time for his next shoot, Valentino didn't really care what he chose to do with his night. He took the limo home and ordered in a masseur to give hime some relief from all the built up tension. The happy ending helped a little, and Valentino went to bed.
When he woke up with the same sense of ennui for the fourth day in a row, he called in sick (he ordered Travis to take care of the day’s recordings and the excited tremor in the man's voice almost made Valentino want to retract the order, if only because the man’s happiness irritated him immensely). Instead he went up to Velvette's quarters, and threw himself on the couch in her office to complain about all the things that were wrong with his life whilst chainsmoking his way through a pack of cigarettes.
In his wallowing, he had forgotten that Velvette, contrary to Vox, in fact had a sense of smell, and so he found himself surprised when halfway his fourth cigarette she tossed a glass of water at his face, extinguishing his cigarette and also effectively cutting short his broody monologuing.
"First of all," she said, when Valentino gave her a look of utter betrayal and flopped his antennae out of his face, "I don't understand half of what you're saying when you keep switching to Spanish and it's fucking annoying,"
"That's racist," Valentino complained, and Velvette rolled her eyes so hard Valentino thought he could see the inside of her skull for a moment, the sockets of her eyes briefly distracting him with a series of possibilities he mentally jotted down for later scripts, and then she snapped her fingers at him, clearly noting his train of thought and disapproving of it.
"Second of all," Velvette continued, "I'm not a fucking therapist. Whatever your issues are, I don't care. That's why you have a boyfriend—"
"Vox is not my boyfriend," Valentino interrupted, but Velvette simply raised her voice to talk over him.
"And if he is unwilling to listen to your whining, and God, I would be surprised if he isn't, find yourself an actual therapist. Which, you probably need, let's be honest, you fucking psycho."
If it was anyone else, Valentino would be angered by those words, but even as she went to turn up the fan to get rid of his smoke, swearing at him all the way, he could tell the affection bleeding in her words. So he decided to leave her models alone, and only decided to flap his wings once to cover the entire room with a sheen of his pheromone induced glitter. The whole room could use a little sparkle, and he watched with no little amusement as the seamstresses and designers looked up in surprise when the dust reached them, giving each other a look that quickly shifted from confused to lustful, and they dropped their work. Velvette yelled at him when he turned around the corner, and he only leaned back to blow her a little kiss before leaving.
The idea of getting a therapist wasn't that outrageous. Valentino knew there were plenty of people in Hell who got themselves a therapist if they could afford it, but then those were also people who didn't have the sort of luxuries that Valentino had. They had actually pitiable lives, and Valentino did sort of understand the idea of complaining about your shitty life to someone who got paid to not judge you for your own poor choices. On the contrary, Valentino didn't think he'd ever made a poor choice in his life - except maybe when he had decided to try to experiment with a green color palette. Theoretically green should be a sort of complementary color for his purple skin, but it made him look terribly ashy, and in the perpetual redness of Hell, most of the green tints turned out a sort of muddy brown anyway. He shivered as he thought about the terribly unfashionable photo shoots, and made a mental note to ask Vox to double check if all evidence from those days were wiped from the internet. As he was already thinking about Vox and his access to the entire internet, Valentino pulled out his phone and shot off a message.
There was a long stretch of fifteen seconds between when Valentino sent those messages and the check marks next to them turning green, indicating that Vox had read them. It was another eternity of five seconds before the reply came in.
And then, because he knew that Vox was one of those people who didn't appreciate single letter replies or lack of gratitude, he made an effort to type out:
Vox' reply didn't have anything but the link to a location not far from the V-tower, right next to a bar that made cosmopolitans exactly the way that Valentino liked. He smiled as he put his phone back in his coat, and felt a sort of warm affection blossoming somewhere in his ribcage. His mood already brightened significantly, he decided to make a surprise drop-in in the studio to see how the actors were doing. If he was lucky, maybe some of them would require a little extra guidance.
*
He got so caught up in his duties at the studio that he barely remembered to get himself together in time to make it to the appointment. He had to tuck himself in his pants after just a quick wet wipe, which wasn't ideal, but didn't bother him too much. He’d definitely gone out in a worse state. He arrived a fashionable 20 minutes late at the therapist, with two cosmopolitans he had ordered to go - essentials if Valentino was going to be asked to talk about his feelings.
The therapist was a tiny thing, a ram with impressive horns but a slightly raspy voice that trembled when he spoke - and Valentino wasn't sure if it was because he was scared of him, or because he was old. Or because he was, at the core, some glorified goat, and they tended to be on the trembly side of things. Valentino hated shooting porn with goat sinners, though they made for great content if you piled them on top of each other (his Mountain Goat Climbers series was a bestseller for a reason). But they were a pain to get in focus due to their shaky nature and their tendency to faint mid shoot. This man wasn’t a contender to be in any of his shoots anyway, Valentino thought, because aside from being fat, he was also ugly as shit.
"Mister Valentino," the man said, "welcome. Take a seat."
Valentino was pleased to find that the seat was in fact large enough for him to lounge into, and he did exactly that, stretched himself like he used to see in the movies, arm over the edge of the couch and his feet crossed at the other end. He let out a long, dramatic sigh, and sipped his cosmopolitan. Perfect.
"Doctor," he drawled, "I find that recently I have been struck down with weariness. I fear it may be the result of a long-standing childhood trauma."
The therapist only nodded, and took an emtpy sheet of paper, jotting down a few things. Valentino wondered if therapists had the same sort of terrible handwriting that doctors had. The sort of thing that would allow them to almost write in code. Valentino also wondered if the doctor could prescribe him some Valium, and then immediately had to laugh at the idea that he had to get permission from anyone for anything.
"Do you find that you've been struggling with emotions related to your family?" The goat bleated, cleared his throat, and then continued, "Perhaps, b-ah, did you have a bad relationship with your father?"
"Don't fucking talk about my father," Valentino said, pushing himself up a little to glare at the man, who cowered and held up his arms defensively, "who do you think you are?"
"Right, sorry," the therapist amended, and Valentino settled back down, sipped his Cosmopolitan. The man's voice trembled harder when he asked Valentino to explain what he had been struggling with, and Valentino told him. Or at least, he sort of glossed over the events, because even with the NDA he knew the man would have signed, Valentino didn't think that his inner life was actually any of the man's business. He was asked a few more questions, but he found that despite the Cosmopolitan, he grew more irritated rather than less, which seemed to go against the entire point of being there.
"I can sense that you're getting a little worked up," the therapist said eventually, when Valentino had thrown one of the Cosmopolitans at the man (the empty glass, of course, Valentino wasn't in the habit of wasting alcohol and the cocktail was delicious). "Would you say that you have some anger issues?"
Valentino finished his second cocktail in one gulp, dropped the glass to the floor, and pulled out Moneyshot.
The ensuing crack and thunk as the man hit the floor was the most therapeutic sound that Valentino had ever heard. He blew the smoke from the tip of the gun, enjoying the way that the little diamonds sparkled. It had been a great idea to bedazzle it, he thought, totally worth the time he invested in it.
Gun pocketed, he pulled himself up from the seat, stretched luxuriously, and made his way over to the desk to sign off his name on the visitor's book. He added a little heart to show his appreciation, and then strolled out of the office, humming to himself. On his way out of the building, he picked up his phone, and dialed Vox' number.
The man picked up after the second ring, voice disinterested as ever.
"That was fast."
"He was very helpful," Valentino said, free hands searching in his coat for his cigarettes and a lighter. The limousine was parked a dozen feet away, so Valentino waited for the driver to pick up on his presence whilst he lit himself a fag. "Especially when he fell back and died."
There was a long moment of silence on the other end, in which Valentino dropped the lighter back in his pocket, and raised a hand to catch the attention of his driver, since the man was clearly distracted if he hadn't noticed Valentino's arrival.
Vox made a little sound. "Val, tell me you didn't stab the therapist."
"Don't be ridiculous," Valentino exhaled the smoke, watched it as it curled up into the air and dissipated, "I shot him."
A sigh. "On the carpet?"
Valentino beamed proudly. "And all over the wall."
Another moment of silence. And then. "Do you feel better?"
It was touching, the way he cared. "So much," Valentino said, "I'm coming home. Do you want to watch reruns of Alastor being stabbed by that angel guy while we fuck?"
A crackle Valentino knew out of experience would make the light in the tower flicker and about a hundred employees freak out about data loss. He knew out ouf experience that Vox' face would be a darker shade of blue than usual. So it was no surprise when the answer came, an almost reluctant allowance, "Yeah."
Valentino let out a pleased little hum, and got inside the limousine. "Alright papi. I'm on my way."
He didn't even feel the need to yell at the chauffeur for making him wait. Instead he leaned against the window, and watched the streets pass by as they made their way back to the tower.
Therapy was a good thing, Valentino decided. Sometimes you just had to be reminded of the little joys in life.
He thought he might book himself another session next week.