For a long moment, Cyrus looks at Stephen, his expression almost steely. Appraising, at least; cold and analytical, a face he wears when he's waiting for a subordinate to deliver news he knows he won't like, and knows they don't want to give him.

...And then, suddenly, he breaks into an easy grin - the kind he doesn't wear often in public. It's too wide, too easy, too fond for polite company; it belongs to Stephen, and Stephen alone, and has for close to ten years. (It used to belong to others, too; this is no longer the case.)

"Come on," he says. "I know that." He leans forward, bending until his back creaks, to reach out and ruffle Stephen's hair, to give his shoulder a light, playful shove. He sits back, stretches-- "Now, I'm no expert on the rebellion-- but somehow I don't think you're what they're looking for."