Working Smile

Hello everyone! Been working on this AU since I was like 16 years old and just now feel more secure with it to finally write my first fic within the AU. I'll talk about Jefferey specifically just to keep things short, he never became Jeff the Killer when he was 16 (he is 24 in this fic) he had his first psychotic break and believed that his brother, friends and him were killers being controlled by a tall figure he referred to as Slenderman. After his first Inpatient stay he was diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type.

I do want to say I personally do not have Schizoaffective Disorder, I did a lot of research over the years and watched multiple videos of people with the disorder explaining and sharing their experiences. As I find many Creepypasta fics that deal with mental illness often accidentally portray the illness in a stigmatizing way. If you have Schizoaffective Disorder Bipolar Type and feel this is not the case feel free to comment and let me know so I can make appropriate changes.

I also tried a new writing style to make it seem more like a clinical log?? IDK if I pulled it off very well though. I'm still new in general to writing fanfictions this is only my 4th or 5th one I've written. So I'm still trying to find my style and how I want to write if that makes any sense.

*Originally posted on Ao3*

Morning — Structure Before Thought

Jeff doesn’t wake naturally anymore.

Sleep is inconsistent — three hours during manic stretches, fourteen during depressive crashes, fractured REM cycles full of auditory hallucinations and intrusive imagery. His phone alarms escalate every ten minutes. They rarely work.

Smile does.

At 6:30am the first alarm vibrates. Jeff groans but does not move. His breathing is shallow; his hands twitch against the mattress.

Smile initiates the wake (your ass) up protocol automatically. 

He jumps onto the bed and settles across Jeff’s hips first — controlled, trained weight. Deep pressure therapy designed to stimulate proprioceptive input and interrupt dissociation. Jeff tries to roll away. Smile adjusts, shifting higher until his chest presses firmly into Jeff’s ribcage.

A low whine. Persistent nose nudges to Jeff’s jaw and hands.

Jeff finally inhales sharply and opens his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

Smile doesn’t disengage. Not yet.

He reaches toward the nightstand, grabs a small fabric pouch by its tug loop, and drops it onto Jeff’s chest — medication kit. Inside: mood stabilizer, antipsychotic, water bottle clipped to the side.

Jeff hesitates. Morning paranoia still lingers; sometimes he believes the pills are poison or surveillance tools. On those days he stares at them like they might bite.

Smile presses harder.

Jeff swallows the medication slowly. Smile watches his throat, waiting for confirmation. Only when the pills are taken does the dog shift his weight and hop off the bed.

Without Smile, Jeff has gone days without medication. With Smile, adherence increases enough to keep his symptoms from escalating into full psychotic crisis most weeks.

Mid-Morning — Hallucination Management

Schizoaffective symptoms are unpredictable.

Some mornings Jeff is lucid and quiet. Others begin with auditory hallucinations layered over reality — whispering voices commenting on his actions, shadows that move when nothing else does.

Today starts with confusion.

Jeff stands in the hallway, staring into a corner. His lips move in silent conversation. Shoulders tense, posture defensive. His eyes track something that isn’t there.

Smile approaches slowly and sits at Jeff’s side.

Jeff’s voice is barely audible. “Are you seeing that?”

He swallows. “Check.”

Smile scans the environment — neutral posture, tail relaxed, ears forward but not alert. No threat signal. He turns back and presses his flank firmly into Jeff’s left leg. Sustained pressure. Warmth. Familiar weight.

Jeff’s breathing stutters. His eyes flick to the dog.

Smile licks Jeff’s hand — repetitive sensory input designed to interrupt fixation and redirect attention to present physical sensation.

The hallucination loses focus. Jeff blinks, then looks down at the floor.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Okay. Not real.”

Smile remains in contact until Jeff’s posture loosens and his gaze stabilizes.

Early Afternoon — Manic Escalation

Mania doesn’t arrive gently.

It builds through small behavioral cues — faster speech, pacing, inability to sit still, grandiose ideas spoken half aloud. Jeff begins moving through the apartment rapidly, knocking objects over, laughing at nothing. His hands flex repeatedly near the pocket where he keeps a folding knife.

Smile tracks every movement.

When Jeff grabs his hoodie and moves toward the door, Smile positions himself sideways across the threshold. Exit blocking — a trained task for moments when impulsivity spikes and risk increases.

“Move,” Jeff snaps.

Smile does not move.

Jeff pushes lightly at first, then harder. Smile plants his feet and maintains eye contact. One controlled bark — sharp, deliberate — interrupts the escalation.

Jeff freezes.

Smile retrieves a thick tug rope from the corner and shoves it into Jeff’s hands. Redirected motor activity. Something repetitive, physical, grounding.

Jeff resists for several seconds, then grips the rope and pulls. The interaction becomes rhythmic. Muscles engage. Breathing deepens. Speech slows.

After several minutes Jeff collapses onto the floor, exhausted. Smile transitions immediately into deep pressure therapy, laying across Jeff’s thighs and lower abdomen.

The manic surge does not disappear, but it reduces enough to prevent Jeff from leaving the apartment in an unstable state.

Late Afternoon — Depression and Neglect

Energy crashes are severe.

By mid-afternoon Jeff lies motionless on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He has not eaten since morning. His phone alarms go off repeatedly — reminders to hydrate, check in with friends, stretch — but he ignores them.

Smile switches task sets.

He retrieves a water bottle from the floor and places it against Jeff’s hand. No reaction. Smile repeats with a prepackaged meal container. Jeff turns his head away.

Escalation protocol begins.

Persistent pawing at Jeff’s chest. Cold nose pressed against his throat — an uncomfortable but effective stimulus. Low whining increases until Jeff sighs and sits up just enough to drink.

It’s minimal intake, but it interrupts the total shutdown that often leads to multi-day rapid or neglect cycles. Smile remains nearby, periodically nudging Jeff’s arm to maintain engagement with the environment.

Later, Smile drops the leash into Jeff’s lap. A trained cue for movement.

Jeff hesitates for several minutes before standing. The walk is slow and silent, but it gets him outside — sunlight, air, mild sensory input that reduces the depth of the depressive spiral.

Evening — Public Exposure and Paranoia

Crowded environments increase Jeff’s paranoia.

During a short grocery trip, he becomes hypervigilant — scanning faces, muttering about surveillance. His posture stiffens; his breathing grows shallow.

Smile shifts into forward lead grounding.

He walks half a step ahead, maintaining consistent leash tension to encourage a steady pace. When Jeff stops abruptly, Smile leans his body weight against Jeff’s shin — tactile reassurance and spatial orientation.

Jeff whispers, “Check,” again when a stranger laughs nearby.

Smile scans neutrally, then presses into Jeff’s leg. No alert behavior.

Jeff exhales slowly and continues walking. The outing ends without confrontation or panic.

Night — REM Disturbance

Nighterrors remain the hardest symptoms to manage.

Jeff thrashes violently in his sleep — shouting, clawing at invisible threats. His hands grasp for objects that are not present.

Smile jumps onto the bed and applies full-torso deep pressure therapy. He licks Jeff’s hands repeatedly until muscle tension decreases and Jeff wakes.

Jeff sits up, disoriented, breathing hard.

Smile presses his head under Jeff’s chin, maintaining contact until Jeff’s respiration slows. If an evening medication dose was missed, Smile retrieves the pill pouch again.

The night terror ends faster than usual. No self-injury occurs.

Between Tasks — Relationship Without Romance

Jeff rarely speaks affectionately to Smile.

His language is blunt. Functional.

“Move.”
“Stay.”
“Check.”
“Good.”

But his behavior tells a different story.

He leans into the dog during psychotic episodes. He reaches for fur automatically when panic spikes. He allows physical closeness that he does not tolerate from humans.

One night after a long manic crash, Jeff sits on the floor with his back against the wall while Smile lies across his boots.

“You’re not here to make me scary,” Jeff says quietly, almost to himself.

Smile shifts his weight — grounding pressure without a command.

“You keep me… operational.”

He rests his forehead briefly against the dog’s shoulder. Three minutes of stillness. Breathing synchronized.

No hallucinations. No pacing. No intrusive thoughts loud enough to overpower reality.

Just a handler and a working dog performing their roles — one managing a brain that refuses consistency, the other applying trained tasks with mechanical patience.

Smile does not cure Jeff.

Jeff still experiences hallucinations, manic spikes, depressive crashes, medication side effects, and long stretches of instability. Some days the tasks are not enough, and Jeff requires clinical intervention beyond what a service dog can provide.

But Smile’s work creates space between impulse and action. Between hallucination and belief. Between neglect and basic survival.

The tasks are repetitive, structured, clinical:

• Medication retrieval and adherence monitoring
• Deep pressure therapy for emotional regulation
• Hallucination interruption through sensory grounding
• Exit blocking during impulsive manic episodes
• Retrieval of food, water, and mobility cues during depressive states
• Nightmare interruption during REM disturbances
• Forward lead grounding and environmental scanning during paranoia

No aggression training. No protective commands.

Just consistency.

And on nights when Jeff sits awake in the quiet, hands tangled in black and white fur while his thoughts finally slow enough to rest, Smile remains exactly where he is trained to be.