For a brief, bright moment, he had forgotten what he was. In the dim light of the stable, he could ignore how pale his hands were, or that he didn't need to breathe, or that he was technically dead. He could ignore that, but he couldn't ignore the flinch.
Simon's breath hitched and he held it rather than apologize. He did NOT choose this for himself in some odd bid for immortality...but he knew the flinch was an instinct; life protected itself from the unnatural, and what was more unnatural than the walking, talking dead?
So, instead of giving a verbal yes or no, Simon merely gave Silas a wry grin, plucked the Ace from his hand, shuffled the deck with a flourish, and fanned a deck made of nothing but the same Ace. He shuffled again with another flourish, fanned a normal seeming deck, then quickly gathered the fan back into a deck.
He slid back to his own hay nest, contemplative, still unbreathing, trying to figure out the appropriate thing to say.