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It's not, Francis knows, a good sign. There are no good signs, now; everything seems an ill omen, and Sir John will listen to — will acknowledge — none of them. But this is an ill omen of a different sort, that even as Sir John seeks to assure his commanders that poor health does not overtake the men, Francis watches Fitzjames pour himself a glass of Francis' whisky, watches the way he turns the cut crystal in his hands. That even as Dr McDonald gives his report, even as Sir John gives orders, even as the ship's boy is dying … Francis watches Fitzjames' hands, watches as he sets the glass on the chess board, notes that it's not empty. He follows when his Captain leaves the room, Fitzjames on his heels, but he notes it.
Sir John loves his men. That much is indisputable. It would be disrespectful to wonder if he loves them as people, as individual souls, or merely as a collective for him to command, to shepherd — not mutinous, not even insubordinate, but surely disrespectful. Francis cannot help but think it, nonetheless. It's better than thinking about the way Fitzjames looks at him, like he's constantly sizing him up. It's hard to tell in which respect, exactly, Fitzjames finds him lacking.
He can't quite hear the man's words as Francis makes his descent into the ship, only his sour tone. Whatever objection to Francis he has, Sir John is surely hearing of it now.
It's hardly a long enough journey to his cabin for Francis to shake off the melancholy this meeting has instilled in him; while it pains him to admit that Fitzjames could be right — generally speaking, but more specifically that he would know Francis' moods — the man is not wrong that Francis is in a brown study. He feels a bit of irritation to see a chair askew when he reenters the cabin before he realizes it was his own, hastily abandoned; Sir John's seat is still perfectly aligned with the table in front of it. The chair where Fitzjames had sat — had lounged, really; had slouched, making himself perfectly comfortable in Francis' space, perfectly comfortable with his chess board, with his —
Whisky. The glass is still on the chess board, abandoned with a good finger left in it. Francis can't help the derisive snort that leaves him, and he chooses not to examine what causes him to judge Fitzjames for leaving perfectly good drink behind, nor how well he can imagine his own actions in such a position: glass in his hand as he stood, taking merely a moment to down the rest. Fitzjames had probably been … fixing his collar. Nevermind that Francis had been watching him in that moment, knows well Fitzjames merely pulled himself to attention, eyes only on his Captain.
He crosses the room to where Fitzjames had sat and picks up the glass. He holds it up to the window; the cut glass reflects and refracts the late-evening sun, bits of light scattered over the room. He should be used to it, after all this time, but sometimes the light still startles him, disorients him. No matter how well-regimented a life one leads, it's all too easy for the days to blend together with no nights to separate them.
After a moment, he begins to lower himself into Fitzjames' — no. Into the chair Fitzjames had occupied. He is not so far gone as to imagine a future in which these are Fitzjames' quarters, but even the thought that Fitzjames could find himself at home in them now is enough to startle him, and he straightens up suddenly enough that the whisky sloshes in the glass. Not enough to spill, not nearly, nothing he might need to clear from his fingers where they grasp the crystal; there's so little left, after all. But still, Francis thinks, as he brings the glass to his lips, resolutely putting from his mind that Fitzjames' own mouth had been just there not long ago: it would be a shame to waste it.