Simon breaks off after a nice, regulation thirty seconds, and politely wipes his spit of Gregor's neck with his sleeve before straightening and taking a step back. He levels his Emperor with a sardonic look, brow quirked. There are a few rejoinders he could make—I have, would likely invite the sort of questions that would turn Gregor in on himself, which should be avoided. Never mind that Simon had hardly been stoic during that.

He could also say something flirtatious. We could give it a try. Gregor's reaction hadn't gone unnoticed; frankly he had expected it, given how rarely he engaged in any intimacy. He could press his point, subtle, inexorable, until he got his way. No. Maybe in the past, but now, his Emperor had spoken. It wasn't—wasn't any longer?—Simon's place to try and turn his hand. This solution was perfectly workable, anyway; there was no need to make truth of the lie.

"But then I'd miss your expression during the Miles portion of my report. Always a treat," he says instead. Miles was usually a safe, neutral topic.