He watches Ianto struggle for a few seconds, lofts an eyebrow at him before finally reaching out to gently squeeze his upper arm as he slides past. He's fine, it's just a scratch, stop fussing.

"Help yourself," he says, and dumps down a paper bag on the kitchen table. The bread is fresh and also, slightly flavoured he thinks? He was hungry enough that it smelled good. His rucksack lands on the floor by a chair and John shrugs off his jacket, loops it over the back. There's a clean, new-looking bandage around his left arm where the bandit stabbed him -- along with a couple of newer (but still clean) scuffs and scratches on his skin. "So, good news everyone! Shamans drink dragon blood to become temporarily invulnerable and apparently it's spicy and therefore useful as a condiment."

This is not in fact good news but who's counting.

"Also, their hobbies include kidnapping, putting people in cage fights against chimeras and burning things. You still got a headache?"

The last part directed at Ianto, because he's thinking about his knock to the head and the no-fussing rule definitely doesn't apply to him.

"And if you lie to me," he adds, "I'm selling the coffee maker."