He doesn't need ice, it's fine, and John wants to protest that he's not poking it just testing --

The bartender glances vaguely in their direction, presses his lips together in mild irritation before dumping a tube and a small canister on the counter by Ianto.

"Guess that's a no on the ice," John drawls, but maybe in whatever this place is they don't need ice. Maybe in future-land where you eat bugs the idea of putting ice on a bruise is weird. Or maybe he just doesn't want to waste good ice on some idiot who got his face beaten into the ground.