Bullheaded determination and good old fashioned spite is how Jim's so cheery. He spent entirely too many years with people expecting him to fail to have done anything but been on time to every single asscrack of dawn class, to be anything but instantly alert at any hour on the ship. He slipped up into bad habits, once. Never again.

Jim laughs quietly at Ianto, and then wolfs down the rest of the sandwich when someone's at the door. Too late to freshen anything.

"Hey, good morning," he greets, pushing off the counter. Maybe his own genuine ease can sooth whatever anxious knots John's secretly tying himself up in. "Thanks, man. I know my cooking isn't anyone's favorite, you might be saving a life." Jim will still eat it, though, because food going to waste isn't something he abides by, no matter what it happens to be. (While still being practical enough to understand not everyone wants weird leftovers.)

"So." He presses his hands together. "We're talking shamans and the Altar of Volkkra. Yeah?"