To Sans's credit, he doesn't make carrying his slow, dumpy tailbone around difficult; maybe he's grateful he isn't slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, or that he brought him along at all, but the skeleton immediately assumes the position of 'limp and complacent' once secured under one arm.

Oralech lets him down easy as you please, and Sans is quick to chuckle, pretending to wipe sweat from the bony supraorbital ridges of his brow. No, wait, is that actually some kind of condensation there?

How the heck-- nah, it's probably jungle humidity. Skeletons don't sweat.

"Whew," he plops right onto the ground, even though it wasn't him doing all the heavy lifting. Or even much running. But he does add, after a moment of kneading his skull like he's nursing the start of a headache: "Thanks for the putting petal to the metal, frond. I really owe you one.

"...So that must'a been the unruly weed Muffet was talkin' about. Huh."