Fire.
There was a blaze on the fourth platform of the space station. Sirens and flashing lights filled the senses as panic and tension gripped the travelers in the transit wing. Five dead already from a fuel line rupture. Six. The station-wide comms kept them up to date on the situation.
Another catastrophe. Another death. Nothing new.
Little catastrophes were unavoidable in the grand scheme of things. Potent little reminders of the fragility and frivolity of life. At least its fragility for everyone except Captain Jack Harkness.
The cool corridors were away from the heat and were sealed so there wouldn't be any chance of him being stuck floating in space. The rest he could care less about. If he got involved, he would risk another death and another plunge into black. Not today. History could run its course. He'd let them die, just like the Doctor had let the 456 terrorize Earth.
He never came.
The searing thought made his sturdy step falter. All the crimes that weighed on his mind bit at him, telling him that they were his fault – but this one he could share the guilt for. The Doctor had let Earth down. He had let Jack down. Because it wasn't Daleks, or Cybermen, or any of the Doctor's closest enemies, he didn't need to save Earth. It seemed he accidentally saved Earth in the process of defeating his rivals instead of saving Earth for the sake of Earth.
The Doctor doesn't love Earth, he loves winning.
Biting back the bitterness, he let out a hissing breath as he sauntered past a window where onlookers gawked at someone else's tragedy. At the end of this corridor was a cantina where a stiff drink waited for him that might drown out the ringing in his ears. Maybe at the bottom of the glass would hold a warm memory of Earth. Maybe it could thaw some of the chill on his heart.
Maybe it could quiet the ghosts.