Ianto tagged along to the store.

He had done the shopping when he lived alone, but when Jack mostly moved in, they started stopping at the store on the way back from Torchwood, and he gladly let Jack take the reins there, following him along the aisles but only chiming in when he had something to say.

He didn't like going to the store. He would put everything away when they got back to his flat, and would help set the table when they ate there instead of in the living room with a film playing in front of them, but when it came to shopping and cooking, Ianto preferred to take the backseat.

Now, however, after spending two months unable to leave the flat, Ianto took his first chance to leave and tagged along to the store.

He was only just off crutches but the doctor had cleared him for long distances—as long as he was careful and listened to his body—no matter how worried Jack looked, and he was so desperate for enrichment the store would suffice.

Ten minutes in, and Ianto was regretting his decision.

It was just his knee. Mostly. He schooled his face when Jack looked at him worriedly; he was pushing the trolley and using it to distribute his weight. It was mostly his knee, which included the bone and the tendons and the ligaments and—everything that was disturbed when he'd taken a bullet to it.

Stupid blowfish.

Ianto's dignity was hurt worse than his knee. Given how well he was walking, quite badly.

Jack, in the past weeks of taking care of him—every moment of which Ianto had simultaneously hated and loved, taking in the affection and cursing himself for needing the time to recover—had started making homemade sauces. Ianto would be content to survive on storebought sauces: there they were, lined up neatly. He would have arranged them differently, but he was in charge of the Torchwood archives, not the sauce shelves.

Jack grabbed the spices they needed from the other side of the aisle.

Jack didn't ask "Are you alright?" but he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Ianto clenched his hands around the handle of the trolley and nodded. "Do we need more pasta?"

Jack threw some boxes in. Ianto grimaced. They made the sound that his knee now made when he was forced to bend it in physical therapy. He added some jam from the far end of the aisle. He usually made some, but the summer meant that the fruits were fresh, and Jack was far more into eating them that way than boiling them.

"Fruit," Jack declared just like Ianto had been expecting him to.

Ianto followed him. The temperature changed when they got to the produce section, sending more pain down his leg. Stupid chill. His other leg hurt in the cold, too, had ever since he'd had it broken as a kid, and now this? Unfair. Ianto shifted his weight more onto his right leg. Stupid knee. Stupid pins keeping it all together. Stupid aliens.

"Pineapple?"

Its flower represented something, Ianto remembered—was it called a flower? Maybe it was the whole plant. There was some symbolism there. He'd read it when he'd spent time recovering in bed. A truly awful time.

He nodded.

What he wouldn't give to be lying down now, too.

He followed Jack through the aisles, the shortest way to the berries: cherries and strawberries and grapes and raspberries. Jack grabbed a box and bag of each and put them gently on top of the rest of their groceries. They were by the exit, now. Ianto tried not to look too desperately at the doors.

Judging by Jack's raised eyebrow, he was failing.

He tried to smile.

He was fine. Just hurting. But fine.

"I think that's it," Jack said despite his efforts.

It wasn't. They needed ice-cream—not for Ianto, but for Gwen, who was coming over tonight—and more bread, and some of the nice butter. And they'd forgotten the rice back in the pasta aisle.

Ianto didn't mention any of it.

Jack grabbed the other end of the shopping trolley and pulled it, Ianto behind it, to the registers.

Intellectually, Ianto knew that it wasn't a big deal to say, "Jack, I've been shot in the knee and even after two months, it hurts if I sit up incorrectly, so being at the store and standing is making me want to pass out instead of taking another step, so could you please help or tell me to go back to the car?"

The rest of his brain whispered in Ianto's ear that he could tough it out. He could. He wished he could sit down on the floor and never get up instead.

"Five minutes," Jack told him as he began to pay.

Five minutes. Ianto could do that.

Five minutes. He wanted to help but it was all he could do not to give into the pain and the pressure and the itching—better think of something else. But it hurt so badly. He hadn't even been up for that long yet; Jack had been right. There was no way in hell Ianto was actually verbalizing that.

He tuned out Jack talking to the saleswoman. Better think of something else.

Bam—a shot. Bam—falling on the ground.

Not the best memory to get stuck in. Ianto focused on his hands, holding the shopping—and himself—steady. He had vague memories of Jack calling an ambulance, of waiting for several days to actually get surgery, of coming home and being too drugged to be embarrassed at the help he needed. Vague memories. Part of Ianto, the same part that watched documentaries for fun, was sure the memories existed only because his brain wanted to fill the time. Part of Ianto, the part that remembered Jack stroking his forehead, smoothing his blankets, and gently kissing his cheek, desperately wished that it had been true.

With recovery came pain. He knew that. It wasn't supposed to be easy. And Ianto could handle hard. He could handle pain.

It was just… hard.

Jack was putting their purchases back into the cart. "I can pull up the car and pick you up."

As tempted as he was, Ianto shook his head. If he sat down now to wait, he wouldn't want to get back up to go to the car. Already, he would have to get up to get back into the flat. "No."

He didn't say he was alright. But he continued pushing the trolley; it was as much a show of pride as a physical support, no matter Jack's concerned expression.

At the car, Ianto accepted Jack's hand when he abandoned the groceries and got in. He closed the door behind him and let out a long breath. Bit his lip. Made himself comfortable without moving his leg before buckling in. Gave Jack's hand a comforting squeeze when he sat in the driver's seat and accepted his kiss on the forehead.

Ianto smiled at him as the pain faded into a dull ache. "No regrets."

Jack seemed to be having some anyway.

"Too much too soon," Ianto allowed, "but it was good. To get out a bit."

He didn't say that he would have to stay inside for a bit now to recover. Jack knew it; he wasn't saying anything and neither was Ianto, and this moment of freedom and indulgence might have been too much.

But it had been worth it.

And now Ianto could at least say that he'd helped with the shopping. And it would get him out of such trips in the future when he would be healed enough to go.

Part One of several unconnected hurt Ianto stories (on ao3 creatively titled "he hurty, he get kisses"). Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!