AN: Thought I'd try out a future fic for once. I'm planning there to be one more chapter if people like it. So, please tell me what you think and if I should continue. Xx

I pull my jacket tighter around me as I continue my brisk walk. I'm surrounded by people milling around streets huddled under umbrellas, desperately trying to shield themselves from the violent downpour, a continuous flow of fat raindrops bouncing off the pavement.

I push the door open, the familiar ding above the door putting a small smile on my face, as I dry my feet on the welcome mat and enter the small establishment. The coffee shop hasn't changed in the entire 5 years I've been coming here. Apart from the odd lick of paint, or extra scatter cushion on the sofas lining the walls, it's identical. It's the only place in the world, outside of my flat, that I could easily call home.

I instantly feel warmer, the fireplace put in to good use today, and it's clearly drawing in customers, the little café far busier than it's been in months.

I reach the counter, lifting the panel and stepping behind, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the hook, revealing my deep red apron as I smile in greeting to Dave and Claire, my colleagues, who are always there with a caring smile and a shoulder to cry on, unless they're busy occupying each other's bed. They think we don't know, but despite their best efforts, it's bloody obvious.

I suppose I do occasionally feel out of place, a 40-something-year-old working in a coffee shop alongside horny students, but it pays the bills. Just.

I swipe the cloth over the polished oak table, the bubbles of anti-bacterial spray disappearing as I spread the liquid over the surface. The place is filled with that familiar smell of coffee beans mixed with cleaning products, and I breath it in for a second, relishing the scent.

I double check all the machines are switched off, grabbing the keys from the counter, and locking the door behind me. The streets are quieter now, the nightlife hardly buzzing at eight on a Tuesday evening, and I shove my hands deep in my pockets, heading home.

It's cold tonight, and I'm not in the mood for taking any longer than is strictly necessary to get home, so I cut through the park. The sodden grass soaks the bottoms of my dark jeans, and the wind rustling in the trees sends the slightest of chills down my spine, but I decide to ignore the common horror film clichés, and plug my headphones in, the music acting as a suitable distraction as I hurry along my way.

The headphones were a bad idea.

I didn't hear the bloody great growl behind me as some strange creature bounced on my back, knocking me to the ground with a sudden push. I lie still, shitting myself, but hopefully not showing it, as I concentrate on not opening my mouth - a mouthful of sludgy grass and mud was in the plan for the journey home. The earphones have been ripped from my ears during the struggle, but the loss of my iPod is the least of my worries right now.

I hear it's deep growls, and I try so hard to stop my hands shaking, but just as I'm about to give up hope, I hear a screeching of tyres, and an American accent shouting commands. I risk a glance behind me to see, who I'm presuming to be the owner of the voice, spraying the creature with what looks like pepper spray, but I can't be sure.

And it's then I see the creature's face. Holy fuck! I've never seen anything like it, it's teeth and long forehead are definitely not human, by the looks of things he doesn't have a nose, and his skin looks as tough and rubbery as the all in one boiler suit it's wearing.

"That's the tenth weevil this month."


Why does that name ring a bell?

They seem to have forgotten about me as they clamber the creature in to the back of their SUV, so I get to my feet, but that's as far as I get, because really what do you do when you've narrowly escaped being killed by an…alien?

He slams the boot shut, and I finally get a good look at his face. He's gorgeous, his features perfectly matching his smooth, sensual voice. I recognise him, but I swear I've never seen him before, obviously just one of those faces.

He catches my eye, and I can see the flicker of panic on his face, as my brain slowly puts the pieces together.


Shit indeed Jack Harkness.

I knew retcon was never one hundred percent guaranteed to work, and the slightest little thing could trigger your memories to return, but I never knew that if my memories were going to return it would take 15 years.

Of course, I don't remember everything, far from it. I can't remember anything about Torchwood, my team-mates, the aliens, the deaths, in fact the only reason I even remembered about Torchwood is because it was written on the side of the SUV. No, it was Jack I remembered. But only his face and his name.

I want to know everything, so that's why I find myself sitting in my flat, perched awkwardly on the edge of my couch as I sip steaming coffee, and try to remember.

Eventually, the silence becomes obvious, and Jack has to break it. I was expecting it, not many people can sit in silence while you stare at them and try to remember the relationship you wiped from your mind 15 years ago.

"Anything yet?"

I place my mug on the coaster situated at the corner of the coffee table, clench my hands in to fists and run them up and down my thighs. I fucking hate tension.


Suddenly, without warning or any sign of what was to come, he grabs my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks, the sound of his fingers scratching my stubble as his lips crash against mine, and he pushes my lips apart with the tip of his tongue.

Despite myself, I moan into his mouth, and shift my body closer to his.

I pull back quickly. No matter the fact that I know that at one point in my life I did much more than kiss this man, something at the back of my head is telling me to stop. I must have chosen to forget that life for a reason.

He smirks, and I have sudden flashbacks of his hands running up and down my naked chest, before I blink and look back at him.

"Did that help?"

"A little."

My voice cracks as I speak, my dry throat crackling uneasily over the one simple word. "Why?"


"Why did I choose to forget?"

He noticeably tenses, obviously trying to come up with a suitable answer that won't hurt me too much.

"Torchwood - it changes people. You didn't want that to happen to you. So, you took the retcon." He's clearly finding it difficult to say, and without even thinking it, like it's the most natural thing in the world, I reach across the gap between our bodies and take his hand in mine.

There's those flashbacks again. He's kissing me this time, slowly and tenderly, as we lie sated, naked and sweaty in bed. But it's not enough, I want to remember everything.

I want to live out these graphic flashbacks that are coursing through my mind. If Jack wasn't the reason I deleted my memories, then what's the trouble with trying again?

"I remember. Not everything, but quite a bit. I remember you touching me, kissing me, holding me. I remember us having sex, I remember the aliens, and Tosh, Gwen, Owen, Martha. Make it real Jack. Really remind me. Please."

He nods, smiling, and pushes his body towards mine, edging ever closer to me as our lips meet and he kisses me heatedly.

I press my body forwards, straddling his hips and using my entire weight to pin him to the back of the sofa. He pushes my sodden jacket from my shoulders, and I hear it hit the ground with a wet splat.

"Are you sure?"


And I am. Whatever made me want to forget, it wasn't Jack. And now all I want to do is remember.