Months; years, he wasn't sure.
He stopped caring about that sort of thing, stopped trying to keep track of it all. It seemed somehow better to allow things to blend into one. He'd hitched his way across the stars from cargo ship to cargo ship. He didn't know where he was going, just away, just far away.
It didn't work though, he realised that soon enough. Because even though he thought it was the Earth he was running from, thought it was the memories there; it wasn't. He was running from himself, and that's the one thing he can never get away from.
Jack always used to be so good at pretending, but after what happened, after all of it, he found he didn't want to any more. No, more than that, he wouldn't. Wouldn't do that to the people that died, wouldn't try to carry on like it wasn't his fault.
So after hopping from planet to planet, ship to ship, he found himself in yet another bar. Somewhere to drown his sorrows, or hide inside a glass. There was nothing left of that hero he once painted himself to be. Three days ago there had been an explosion; he'd ignored it. He hadn't wanted to be involved, hadn't wanted to even try. He thought sitting in the corner of a bar that he could hide. That nobody would care. That adventure nor nobody would never find him.
But then Jack never did account for everything.