John lets his hand move from the back of Ianto's neck, slides his arm around his shoulders and draws him into his side.

"That sounds," he says, "like the kind of brash, stupid thing that I'd do."

He turns his face into Ianto's hair, squeezes him a little as if to press comfort into him. Press warmth into him to reassure him further. He's seen Ianto try to fight before, seen him scurry under a wagon, seen him desperately hit out at people with his stun gun. John knows Ianto is not, exactly, a fighter. Yet he has a lot of fight in him. Ianto throws himself into things that he wants head first, he always tries.