His brain froze up at the sound of the impossibly familiar voice, taking most of his higher motor functions with it. His forgotten glass hit the bar, ringing loudly and rolling to the floor behind it in in a small cascade of dark liquid and foam.

John spun so quickly he nearly tumbled off his stool, wide-eyed, taking in the face still as familiar as his own--features he'd traced with his mind's eye a thousand times, scarcely changed in seven years except to grow more beautiful.

A riot of perfectly reasonable hows and whys rushed to be asked and tangled themselves up hopelessly before they could reach his tongue. They were doomed anyway; the hot ache that had sprung up in his chest and gut choked off everything but a single, breathless syllable.

"Kit..."