When the demon smiled with Simon's mouth it was not quite Simon's smile. Andras was a master of control, of small muscle movements in human meat; and ironically enough, his version of Simon's welcoming smile looked far more relaxed and sincere than the real Simon's ever managed to hampered as it most always was by awkwardness and the end of some train of thought or another. When River criticized the welcome he twisted the doctor's features into a look of contrition that would have charmed most of the people that Simon himself managed to offend on a daily basis.
“I thought it would be welcome enough to see I hadn't gotten too bored waiting for you,” he said, sweeping his arms downward to indicate that the body he was wearing was unharmed. “But you seem like a smart girl under the whole 'shit-storm of crazy' you've got going on. I'm sure you understand,” he picked up a scalpel from the table and flipped it easily between Simon's fingers, the blade twisting carelessly close to the underside of his wrist, “the packaging's pretty expendable at the end of the day. What can't you fix well enough to function? I mean, as long as your definition of 'function' stays loose.” He flipped the scalpel out to point the tip at River, “Besides crazy that is.”
(Simon, suspended as he was in his own mind, couldn't even keep his eyes on River, couldn't even feel the nausea that he kept instinctively expecting his field of vision moving without his control to induce. Still, he thought no with all his strength, concentrating on the thought like it was a word he was writing over and over until it tore through the piece of paper it was written upon, as if he could impress it into his own mind, or better yet into River's. It was the mental equivalent of throwing himself on Jubal Early leg-wound and all but he knew even without sensation that his hand hadn't even shaken as it raised the scalpel.)
“So, River,” Andras said as he moved the scalpel to point at her amulet, “are you ready to make a deal?"