[Papyrus doesn't immediately answer, leaning a little more as he wipes at the other cheekbone. He half wants to just sit here and weep, letting his suddenly strong reactions to the last couple weeks splash around for a while, before attempting any conversation. But he's already feeling the embarrassed discomfort of crying so openly, and Sans is here and asking concerned questions, and... he still doesn't want to be alone.]

I'm... I'm, a little, confused. [He admits it in a halting, downplaying way as he tries to settle down, tries to think back. What does he remember? What doesn't he? The last few moments, he recalls pretty coherently, in a normal way. Or, the new normal since all these transformations, where with effort he can piece memories back together enough for pictures and videos - not the continuous, thorough recall he's had for a while. Had for a while. No longer has? They're in pieces of vivid detail, but the pieces don't line up right, and some of them are obviously nonsense. He makes a frustrated noise.]

It's dreamlike. Nightmarish. [He hopes he remembers some of it wrong.] I remember you took my tool. I... think I'm glad you did? More than I'm mad. [He's feeling very much both. Wants to yell about it, wants to thank his brother, wants to lie down and cry that he damaged his little remaining bone like that, wants to finish the job before anything else cracks on him... He settles for scrubbing at his face some more.]