"Crowley, you - shite," Kit muttered, making a few crucial adjustments to her blouse when her attempt to hide behind a bare-chested John didn't work out as discretely as she'd hoped. "You don' have to - I mean, this isn't..."

She ran into some trouble with that statement, as she didn't in fact know what this was -- or wasn't -- except perhaps the result of too much Guinness and more scotch than she'd consumed in ages. But she wasn't drunk enough to miss the troubled look on the disheveled man's face, or to realize that John would be beating himself up later if he let a mate leave looking like that.

"You don't have to go."