AN: This little one shot hit me last night when I read somewhere that smiling really is supposed to make you feel better. My muse latched onto this idea, so I decided to go ahead and post it. It's not very long, and a bit like "The Presence of Absence", but hopefully you'll all enjoy it!
They say that when you smile, your body releases endorphins which automatically make you feel better. Endorphins that make you happy. They say it's your body's natural reaction. Well, I got news for all those Ivy League, million-dollar scientists out there.
It isn't freaking true.
Trust me. I know from experience.
If that was true, my face wouldn't be riddled with hidden frown lines, jaw tired from clenching all day, shining teeth tired of flashing. But that's exactly how it is. Always has been. Hopefully it won't be like this forever. Hopefully the damage already inflicted can be reversed.
Every day I manage to paste on the plastic smile, button up the expensive suit, and walk out the door like the most confident man in the world. Every step aches and every smile burns, but I haven't stopped yet. As the months turn into years and the years pass by with aching slowness, this pretense of mine is shaved further and further down. As time wears down my mask, it becomes more refined, with better shape and definition. But the more it wears away, the closer the world is to seeing what's beneath the mask.
There's no smile under the mask. Not even a hint of one.
And yet still, even with my edges fraying and my façade splitting at the seams, no one suspects a thing. I come and leave every day, a new joke, continued flirting, and of course—always—the constant smile. The relentless grimace-turned-grin that contorts my face into a shadow of happiness. An illusion of satisfaction.
And no one knows the difference.
Hell, in this twisted, screwed-up reality of mine, there are days when even I don't know the difference.
But that really doesn't matter. Just like it doesn't matter that it takes me hours to fall asleep in the silence of my apartment. Just like it doesn't matter that each case hits me harder and harder.
Just like it never mattered. Just like it never will.
And the strange thing? I'm ok with that. I've accepted it, and learned to live my life around the emptiness, the hurt.
Every day, when I wake up, I tell myself that it'll get better at some point. With each bad day, a tally is given to the negative side of the karma chart, and at some point it has to even out…right?
Scientists, you can keep your endorphins. Keep your logic and your experiments and your facts. I'm sticking with good old-fashioned karma, in the hope that it'll stick with me.
Not many have. Unless you count the deceitful smile etched into my features.
It's ironic, that the thing I used to love is now the thing I hate. I guess it's not uncommon though.
I remember when, so long ago, Kate asked me how I got into NCIS. My response? I smiled. And I did. All the time.
Not much has changed.
Yet, at the same time, everything has changed.
But it doesn't matter, because on the surface, I'm painfully static.
So I'll keep winking at the pretty girls, even though my eyes are aching and tired. I'll keep updating my movie references, even though I don't pay much attention anymore to what I put into the DVD player. And I'll just keep pasting on my fake plastic smile, despite the fact that all the glue in the world won't be able to keep it together for much longer.
I'll do these things in the belief that with each bad day, a tally is added to the negative side of the karma chart. Just another line slashed onto the torn accumulation. And with each slash, the odds lean more in my favor. At some point, it has to even out.
…Right?