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Jack’s only done drugs a few times in his life- he went to a folk festival during his time at Harvard, for example, and did just a little ecstasy. To see what it was like. Then there was the time he did LSD in Miles Leonard’s dorm room when they were seniors, the both of them philosophy majors up to their necks in finals preparation. Miles was the one to suggest it: after all, wouldn't they have a better insight into the philosophical world if they took some? Aldous Huxley talked about LSD as a ‘door of perception’, a way of viewing reality in a different way, a genuine way. Past all the mirages of everyday existence. Jack had been convinced, and the two of them had subsequently spent a few hours watching the patterns on the walls and talking slowly about the universe. Pretty stereotypical stuff, really.
All this is to say, though, that Jack isn't super keen on mind-altering substances. Sure, he had fun laughing with Miles about nothing at all, but he'd also lived in existential terror for a few days afterwards, not sure what was real and what wasn't. Even weeks after the festival he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness in his bones, while every other student he knew who'd engaged in the same pursuits was back to normal again.
Drugs just… aren't really for him. He's a little too nervy for them to work in the cool, calm, and collected way that Miles seemed to appreciate them, so he avoids them at all costs.
At least, he avoids them when he knows they're acting on him. It's pretty hard to escape them when you don't even know you're doing them.
Case in point: the situation he’s currently found himself in.
“Mr Griffin? Are you… okay? ”
He blinks, gaze darting to Marcus from the empty space in the back of the room where he could have sworn he just saw a strange flash of colour. “Um… yeah, no. Yeah, I just- what- what was I saying?”
Marcus pushes up his glasses on his nose from the front row. “You were actually teaching us something for once, remember? You were going to show us what happens when you add glucose to methylene blue.”
“Oh, right yeah… of course.”
Even to his own brain, he doesn't quite sound right. His voice seems higher than usual. A little distorted.
“No it doesn't.”
He looks up at Anthony, eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”
“Your voice doesn't sound weird… I mean, you're acting weird, but…”
“It’s- it’s fine.” Jack blurts, shaking himself free of the vaguely LSD-trip-with-Miles feeling in his bones and focusing his attention on the chemicals in front of him. “Okay, so when you add glucose to methylene blue, the glucose acts as a reducer- meaning it reduces the methylene blue, removing oxygen from its structure and-”
Something rushes past his vision. He looks up, startled, but finds nothing except a class full of confused students.
“Mr Griffin?”
Oh. Oh no.
He takes a deep breath. You’re not hallucinating, Jack, because there's no reason for you to be hallucinating. You haven't done any drugs at all. You haven't since ‘98, for Christ's sake.
“Are you sure about that?”
The sudden, familiar voice to his right makes his heart skip a beat. His head turns so quickly he thinks it might snap.
“ Miles?”
He should be in California, but instead Miles is standing in the corner of the room right in front of the flasks and the plants Jack’s never paid attention to before. This isn't the Miles of today, though. It's the Miles he knew back at Harvard, the exact same Miles who took LSD tabs with him. He's even wearing the same sweater.
“Yes and no.” Harvard Miles says, grinning. “Technically it is me, but actually… no. I mean, how could it be me? It's been over a decade since I looked this good.”
Jack looses a small, disbelieving laugh. This is it. He's finally going mad.
His suspicions are confirmed when he glances back at the classroom and finds only blackness. Nothing. Not even any desks or chairs.
“What the…”
“Yes, that is odd.” Miles remarks, hands in his pockets. “And what with me here as well…”
Jack wheels back round to him, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?”
“You’re hallucinating, obviously.” He says it so nonchalantly, voice doused in the blasé nature Jack used to love real Harvard Miles for. “ Why is an entirely different question.”
“I haven't touched drugs for years. I don't do drugs, Miles, you know that- you know how badly I felt after that time in the dorm room.”
Harvard Miles gives him a slightly pitying look. “Yes, I know that, Jack, because I am you. This isn't real. I know what you know, and nothing more. I’m not actually Miles.”
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, panic rising up within him. “Of course. Yes. Right. Knew that.”
"Did you?”
“Shut up, Miles.”
“I’m not-”
“I know! ”
For a few moments, he merely paces back and forth in front of the black void where his classroom used to be, trying desperately to ignore the figure of Not Harvard Miles in the corner. It’s impossible to, though. There's nobody else in this vast nothingness for him to direct his thoughts towards.
“What… what do I do?”
Not Harvard Miles shrugs. His smug aura is starting to get irritating. “How am I supposed to know? Like I said, I'm just you. I can't tell you anything different than you can tell yourself.”
Jack marches over to him, grabs a few fistfuls of that stupid maroon sweater he's wearing.
“Alright, smart Alec, I get it. You're not Miles. But if you are me, then clearly my brain decided you're a useful way of conveying information, so convey. Information. Just- me, tell me what to do.”
It's stupid. It's ridiculous. He's talking to a figment of his own imagination and the black void to his left is turning into a vague amalgamation of colours and God is that Marcus?? and-
“Okay. Wake up.”
Jack brings his eyes back to Not Harvard Miles’ piercing gaze. Exhales. “W-what?”
“I said… wake up, Jack.”
“I don't-”
Not Harvard Miles slaps him on the cheek. It stings like a real blow, but it can't be, right?
“It might be.” His hallucination responds, unperturbed. “Just wake up, Jack.”
“I don't know how.”
“Wake up.”
Jack’s breathing begins to quicken, real panic setting in now. “But I don't- I don't know how.”
“Just wake up.”
“ How?”
“Wake up. Wake up, Jack. Wake up.”
As he speaks, Not Harvard Miles’ eyes begin to flicker. The crimson sweater starts to sweat, threads of fabric falling like snowflakes to the floor of the classroom. His voice grows distorted, deeper, but the message the same.
“Wake up. Wake up, Jack. Wake up. Wake up.”
Jack’s hands drift to his head, nostrils flaring. His chest is rising and falling rapidly.
He's lost it. He's lost it. He's fucking lost it.
“ Wake up, Jack. You have to wake up. Wake up for me.”
Heart pounding in his chest. A screaming beginning from somewhere around him and building, building, til it seems to consume the very walls of the classroom like fire. Everything is melting away. Not Harvard Miles is melting away. He is melting away, breathing deep, panicking panicking panicking panicking-
“ Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”
A pop, like the snap of somebody's fingers or the firing of a BB Gun, and Jack is gasping awake, lifting his head from his chest, fingernails scratching at the floor of the AP Bio classroom, feet kicking out. He’s sat against his desk, chest heaving, eyes watering, and there's a swarm of people around him with widened eyes. Lynette is sat right in front of him. He recognises now that it was her voice telling him to wake up all along.
Her hand stills on his cheek, her smile wavering. “Thank God. There you are.”
The edges of his vision, blurred from panic, start to come into view again. His students are all stood up, all of them looking directly at him. Durbin is there. Mary too. Stef, Michelle. Helen. It seems the whole of Whitlock has gathered in his classroom following his strange breakdown.
“I don't… what… where…?”
Lynette gently shushes him. “Just try to relax, Jack. You’re alright. You've just been tripping on some pretty nasty chemicals.”
He arches a brow- or at least tries to. Given his current feeling of weakness, he's not sure the expression comes across.
“That ethanol you were going to be using for the experiment? Helen accidentally ordered Toluene.”
Jack sighs, eyes fluttering closed. Well, that would explain it.
“I’m real sorry, Jack.” A familiar receptionist’s voice rings out. “I got a new prescription for my reading glasses and I only checked the invoice after… well, after this.”
He ought to be angry with her. In fact, he has every right to be furious given the horrendous ordeal he's just been through.
Right now, though, he's just relieved he isn't insane.
“It’s… it's fine.” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand across his face. He's incredibly sweaty. Jesus.
When he opens his eyes, Principal Durbin is in view, hands clasped together like a hopeful orphan about to ask for more food.
“So you… so you won't sue?”
Jack shakes his head, closing his eyes again. He's exhausted . “No, Ralph. Not today.”
As Durbin sighs with relief too, Lynette’s hand finds his shoulder, reassuring and familiar and real . He leans in to the sensation.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let's go get you checked out at the ER, huh?”