[ To be completely honest, that rankles Sans, but he doesn't speak to it because, hey. Grief twists you up. He's said some pretty bad things under less upsetting circumstances. So. He can't really talk.

He sits there by the bowl, points of light in empty eye sockets fixed on the kid. ]

Yeah, you're not wrong, kid.

[ His shoulders hitch up, shrugging. It's true, all of it -- they're no one, just a kid, stuck here with the rest of them. A fiercely independent and competent kid, but still, well, a child. ]

I may be a skeleton, but I ain't heartless. Anyway, I'm not doin' this for, uh, your gratitude, or anything.