（ he makes a groan of unadulterated longing. ）

Shit, man, me too.

（ maybe most people would ask about the kgb thing, maybe they wouldn't. cy doesn't even blink at it.

not a soldier, not strictly. but he'd known there'd been something trying to catch at the edges of awareness the way dewdrops cling to cobwebs.

food, though, is the more pressing discussion. ）

I could go for some of that shit baked up in a pan and slathered in bacon and sour cream. We got a babushka squirreled away somewhere?