"Something's wrong with him," was the only way Arthur could describe his condition.
"He's fine," Francis argued, leaning against the frame of the door leading into the foyer, where Arthur was crouched, seemingly engaged in a staring contest with his cat. "He looks at me like that all the time."
"He's glaring at me."
"He's fine!" Pulling away from the doorframe, Francis knelt beside Arthur, scratching the surly cat behind the ears, earning a contented purr and an even more anxious look from his owner.
"He doesn't like you, Francis," Arthur said, his thick brows furrowed in distress. "Why is he letting you pet him?"
"Perhaps he's finally coming around," the Frenchman airily replied, far too nonchalant to offer the other man any real comfort. "It took you a while, too, if I remember correctly."
"There's definitely something wrong." Sighing, Arthur stood, grabbing his gray pea coat from the coatrack against the wall. "He hasn't been eating much lately. I'm going to get him some higher quality food. Maybe that'll help." That said, the Englishman slipped out the front door.
Once his silhouette was gone and his footsteps no longer audible, Francis pulled the leftover piece of filet mignon that had been stashed in his pocket out and allowed Churchill to eat it directly from his hand. "Good boy," he said, his voice a soft schemer's whisper. "I think you'll be eating a lot better from now on."
