By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes [Locked]

[silkandstone]

Den is in Sark's apartment. He closed and locked the door behind him--only polite. Ragnar didn't come to greet or question him when he entered; the big cat is sprawled unconscious on Sark's couch, limp from the drugs Den had his people lace in the animal's food

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[sarkraticmethod]

Sark doesn't usually sleep heavily. Unfortunately, most nights he doesn't spend out drinking, which is looking like something he's never ever going to do again. At first, he's convinced its a nightmare, because he's never short those these days, but the more he slowly starts to come out of his near-coma, the more he realizes that's not the case.

He sits up fast enough to make his head spin and while the buzz went away ages ago, sudden movements are not something he ought to be doing.

...And there's Clark. In his apartment. With his cat. ....And that better not be his Petrus. He wastes no time in practically throwing himself at the nightstand table, grabbing for his gun, which is... Not there.

Dammit.

He looks up at Clark, glowering. Maybe if he bolts he can find something to use as an impromptu weapon. He can't think about Ragnar right now. At this point, if the bastard killed his cat, he wouldn't be surprised.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," he growls through gritted teeth.

[silkandstone]

"So I do. Please, drink. I would hate to imbibe my host's own alcohol without him having had the first taste."

Den sits back, ruffling Ragnar's ears with a finger. The cat sighs in his sleep and curls up. "I hear the most distressing things about the fate of my recent gift."

[sarkraticmethod]

Ragnar moved. That's something. Sark stares at the wine glass and wonders if he really really needs any need more alcohol in his system... Or if the man's drugged it.

"You'll forgive me if I don't wish the same fate that befell my cat to befall me," he responds, not moving so much as an inch. "However, if you'd like the first taste... be my guest."

Every hair on the back of his neck is standing on end. Clark got into his flat, drugged his cat, and stole his gun, and he slept through it, and maybe alcohol was to blame or maybe Clark's just that good... Or maybe he's just gotten that out of practice.

That would be just his luck. And here his confrontation with Peyton almost made him feel like himself again.

...He's losing it.

"Well, I'm afraid I've never been fond of flowers, Mr. Clark." He hisses out the name, an indication that he doesn't believe it's his real one, but he knows not what else to call him. "Perhaps you should send chocolates next," he adds with a slight sneer, defiant as always.

[silkandstone]

Den reaches out, sips from one glass, tilts his head back and lets Sark see him swallow. He repeats the performance with the other. He keeps the second glass, raising one eyebrow.

"You may have this one, if you prefer. I only drugged the cat because I don't want to deal with his particular brand of stupidity during this conversation. He does seem to be nice, but I've read some of the transcripts--a well-spoken idiot. I'd rather not have him misunderstanding our exchange."

A tiny smile curves across Den's face and then drops away when he smooths a hand over his chin. "Well, Julian. You can't really leave chocolates on a grave."