Notes: I forgot to say this last time, so I'll say it now. I don't live in Cardiff or anywhere close; I gather my information from friends, memories of my own rare visits, and the Internet. I apologise for any inaccuracies.

Dedication: for Storms-Are-My-Nature, for the fastest review response ever.

Chapter Two

Jack met his first local face-to-face the very next morning, in the middle of the city centre, on a busy shopping street, somewhere between a fast food restaurant and a flashy women's clothing store.

Or rather, he was crashed into and his bag grabbed for.

Unfortunately for the would-be robber, Jack was a quick thinker, and had lived in Glasgow and inner London. And he had survived with none of his possessions being stolen from his person (his house was another story). Which meant that not only did he grab his bag back, but he grabbed his assailant.

"Let the fuck go of my things!" he yelled, attracting a hell of a lot of attention immediately. As crowds do, everybody formed a circle, though Jack was relieved to hear someone yelling for the police. Especially as the struggle quickly turned into a fight, once the assailant realised that Jack really had grabbed hold on purpose, and Jack found himself ready to punch the guy when he suddenly morphed into a scrawny sort of copper with a large mop of gingery blond hair.

Luckily, Jack held back on the punch.

"Right then, calm down," the copper said - and God, he really was scrawny. "What's going on?"

"Little shit tried to nick my bag," Jack snapped.

The 'little shit' in question was engaged in a losing match with another copper - a woman with dark hair who looked flaming angry. And sounded it too. Apparently Cardiff cops weren't too fussy about cursing a blue streak in front of potential criminals. The lanky one sighed on hearing Jack, and turned to his partner.

"Cuff him, Gwen. He's done it again."

Jack mentally wrote up his first email to Sarah-Jane. Dear SJ, first day here and I'm in trouble with the cops already. Wales isn't an alien a landscape as you think, babe. Send bail - I think I punched him a few good ones.

"You're going to have come with us, sir," the lanky guy said. "Can't have fighting in the middle of the Thursday shoppers, can we? It's pension day, you see."

Whatever pension day had to do with it, Jack didn't know, but he also knew not to refuse even a lanky copper, and went with them.

The police car smelled funny too.


The station was bustling, but Jack found himself sat down in a chair after giving his statement and was passed a cup of completely crap coffee, that tasted more like the mud the coffee plant grew from than the beans that came off the coffee plant.

And what the hell was a coffee plant called, anyway?

"Sorry," the female copper said, with a sweet little smile that really was very attractive, if a little toothy for Jack's tastes. Still, the long dark hair more than made up for it. "I know a guy who does amazing coffee, but he refuses to come and work here and make it for us."

"Anything's better than this," Jack agreed, putting it aside. "Can I go yet?"

"Probably soon," the woman rolled her eyes. "That lad's always in for nickin' stuff. And he's not trying to pin you or nothing - just depends if his lawyer's got enough fight left to counter-prosecute you for socking him one."

"Is he likely to?"

"Nah, probably not," she agreed, then held out her hand. "I'm Gwen Cooper."

"Jack Harkness," he said, and gave her a handshake and a flirtatious grin.

"Watch it, handsome, I have a boyfriend," she said, but the smile she gave him in return was just a little bit saucier than the first, making Jack doubt either the existence of the boyfriend, or the seriousness of the relationship. "American, are you?"

"Half," he said. "Born in Glasgow. I've come here from London actually, doing some research."

"You're not a journalist, are you?" she asked, looking slightly put off, and he laughed.

"I wish," he said. "All that travelling. Nah, history buff."

"Not my thing," she'd shrugged. "Don't care about the past, me. Just the present and the future. Lived in Wales my whole life."

"You're from Cardiff?"

"Suppose so," she said. "Fifteen years living here, anyway. Hang on, love..."

She moved away a little to respond to the woman calling her from the desk, then returned with Jack's wallet and keys, looking apologetic.

"We have to keep the actual bag until we've prosecuted him proper and all," she said. "Sorry, but it's procedure, you know?"

"Least I get these," Jack muttered. "Can you direct me to somewhere I can get my coat fixed too? Little shit ripped a hole in the sleeve."

"Oh, no problem!" she brightened, the big smile back. "I know the perfect place, trust me. Tell you what, Andy's going off shift, so it's just me going back out on beat. I'll drop you off. Could you just sign this, though, so we can contact you to come and get your bag or anything else we'll need you for?"

"Sure," Jack said, grinned again, and filled in the form.


Jones & Sons, Professional Tailors

The sign was as old as the shop front, apparently, but the window was well-light and interior looked warm. As Jack stepped into the little shop that Gwen had dropped him off at, a bell above the door jangled happily, and a man appeared behind the counter, which was covered in half-measured cloths and bags of clothing.

"Bore da," the man greeted, then chuckled at Jack's blank look and said: "Good morning. How can I help?"

"Need my coat fixed," Jack said, shrugging it off and showing the man the rip. "Got mugged this morning and the bastard tore it."

"Simple enough," the man said.

"So are you Jones, or one of the sons?" Jack asked with a grin.

"Neither," the man said, and shook Jack's hand. "I'm Colin. The original Jones is long gone now; so are the sons. It belongs to the grandson now, I think - maybe great-grandson, not sure - but he just leaves it up to me and oversees the accounts every now and then. Don't see much of him."

"Oh, a really old business then?" Jack asked, watching Colin examine the material and scribble little notes on a pad at his elbow. "Mind you, Jones isn't really a name to pick them out, is it?"

"They were always the best in Cardiff, though," Colin shrugged. "This place is ancient. There's one in Newport too; family member still takes care of that, though. Some nephew of one of the sons. It's a complex tree."

"Family tree?"

"Yeah," Colin said. "I'm no relation whatsoever. I worked here when Dafydd Jones died, and his son basically left it up to me. He gets most of the profits, but I make a neat little nest egg myself," and he chuckled. "It's a good job."

"I'll bet," Jack agreed.

"That'll be ready in the morning," Colin said. "Would be sooner, but I've got a tuxedo to fit out for someone this afternoon so I won't have the time. Drop by about nine and it'll be done and dusted for you, okay?"

"Sure, thanks," Jack said, and wandered.

Cardiff, without a coat, was chilly in March, and he elected for doing something that involved being indoors.


When Jack finally found a decent-sized library with a history section, he promptly wished he hadn't.

He honestly wondered how everybody in London could possibly think that Wales - or Cardiff itself - had no history. The 'Welsh history' section outweighed the 'World War Two' section by four to one, and every other book in the Welsh section was imaginatively titled 'The History of Wales' with a couple of random dates attached.

It was just like his university days cramming on European history.

Eventually, he decided on a thick overview book and settled down in a nice, comfortable chair by the window with a cup of coffee from a battered-looking coffee machine in the corner and simply read.

And promptly got lost.

Because it was in Welsh. And the only Welsh Jack knew thus far was 'bore da'. And he wasn't even totally sure what that meant. For all he knew, Colin had said 'fuck you' when he'd walked in, though he had to admit it was pretty unlikely.

He put the book back, downed his coffee, and left.

Food shopping.

And then home.


A couple of days later, armed with a fixed coat and a library card, and ready to get to grips with beginning his studies of Cardiff history, Jack's ambitions were rudely interrupted by a text message.

From Gwen.

Inviting him to a concert. Of classical music. Apparently, she had gotten two free tickets from her brother and this mysterious boyfriend wasn't around to go with her, so would Jack like to go? And she had added the enticing fact that she would introduce him to said brother, who knew loads about Welsh history and would be happy to help him.

Boyfriend his arse.

But then, Jack was never one to pass up an invitation from a pretty girl.

So he said yes.

And received what, in years to come, would be easily the greatest blessing of his life.