Hmm, I’m not sure about hate. I don’t like really loud noises, especially loud talking.
Sounds I love, well I love engine noises, just that gentle rumble of a small aircraft. I love the sound of the ocean, and wind moving across a field or through the trees.
Put it this way: Just because you like your tea with honey, it doesn’t mean that you have the right to put someone down because they like theirs with sugar, or with artificial sweetener, or with agave nectar, or with no sweetening at all. Telling them they are “wrong” (or worse, “sick” or “disgusting”) for liking it their way is disrespectful and immature.
The way they take their tea has no bearing on the way you take your tea, and if you don’t care for the way it tastes, then the most you should do is politely wave your hand and say “No, thank you. I prefer it my way”, and go back to drinking your own.
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I was listening to this 8tracks mix by pouahhh and it put me in a melancholy mood. So this fic was born of my giant bucket of Jack Harkness feels:
Jack never really slept anymore. That had been true ever since his first resurrection, more so now that they’d defeated the Master and he’d finally been freed from his year of captivity. The rest of the world had forgotten, but the people inside this ship would carry those scars for a very long time.
They’d survive, Jack knew that. Martha was strong; so was her family. The Doctor, well, he’d be off to the next thing as soon as he could. For himself, he already knew he’d go back to Cardiff, to Torchwood, the Hub. To Ianto and Owen, Gwen and Tosh. To however much time he had left with them.
Because Jack knew more than most just how short human lives could be, how temporary were the families one found. He walked through the empty halls of the Tardis, dragging his fingers along once familiar walls. She’d finally accepted him, at least, and he’d forgiven her for trying to drop him somewhere in the vortex.
He turned a corner and a sad smile crossed his face. The halls of the Tardis often changed, but this one felt more familiar. There should be a door to his room, but there wasn’t. Still, he could hear the echo of laughter, Rose’s voice, Mickey’s, the rougher tones the Doctor used to carry.
Jack remembered a house outside London. Just an ordinary place, nothing important to anyone, but he’d boarded there for a while before World War I. Many, many years later he’d driven to London to speak with Yvonne (she was gone too, now) and found himself on that street once more. He’d stopped in front of the house, noticed a new addition to the back, children’s toys in the yard. A blue eyed boy had caught him looking and given him a funny look. Jack had merely smiled and gone on his way. For all he knew the boy could be one of his descendants; he’d never been exactly chaste, though he’d tried not to leave children behind. Obviously things had happened from time to time, but if he was aware of them they’d always been taken care of, as much as he could.
Shaking his head, Jack took a breath and returned his mind to the present as he went to the console room. The Doctor was no doubt keeping himself busy somewhere else. He wrapped his coat around himself and leaned against the railing, shaking off the ghosts. Dangerous to spend too much thinking about the past. Or the future, for that matter. Jack had told the Doctor he didn’t want to die, and it was true. Humanity struggled on and survived; and despite everything, Jack was still very human. There were things he could do that others couldn’t. Watches he could keep. If sometimes it was lonely, well, there were ways to fill the hours, plenty of life to be lived to the fullest.
Martha wandered into the room, stifling a yawn. “Morning,” she said with a knowing smile.
“Is it?” asked Jack, smiling back.
“Pretty certain. How are you doing?”
Jack knew what she meant, but he deflected the question with his usual charm and banter. “Oh right as rain. We’ll be going home soon.”
Martha nodded. “I know. You better keep in touch with me, Jack Harkness.”
“I will, promise.”
Martha patted his hand. “Come on. You need to eat breakfast.”
Jack followed her to the kitchen. He knew Martha was one of those people he’d always carry with him. He might outlive suns, but the people he loved would accompany him throughout time and space. Jack suspected the Doctor was that way too, hoarding his happy memories in a way one could only understand if they’d experienced great loss. Jack knew he and the Doctor had far more in common than either would admit.
But enough of the past. It was time to see what the future held. It was time to go home.
