[Papyrus starts wringing his hands again as he picks up on the thought. The persistent thought, about the last time this kind of thing happened. (That this is a thing that keeps happening.) The leeches. Smiling until bone strained to the edge of cracking. Deliberately picking people to pull into his influence, the better to make things better. Increasingly decisive action, fueled by anger, at anything not happy.]

I... I'm not... It's, okay, if we're being. Sad, a little. [Something avoidant draws his attention to numb, sharp edges somewhere. The mutual impulse to hide things. So Sans doesn't feel worse about himself for the ways he doesn't support Papyrus as well as he tries to. So Papyrus doesn't feel haunted by the real depths of Sans's apathy. Had he noticed the ways it's hard to tell who's feeling what, before? Or had he already been so changed he was barely Papyrus? He feels like he's still himself, even if he's feeling other things in addition to it. (But then again, he did then, too.)] And maybe store-bought! This time. Who, uh, who needs to bake. Not me.