[It'll be okay, Papyrus knows. Even if it turns out he needs to hunker down and do expensive repair work on himself, he's always been more durable than his brother and he's even more durable now. And with his newly stubborn electric soul, there's likely nowhere in his body the damage could transfer to outright kill him for real. (...Angels have some associations that, maybe, could mean the same thing for Sans. Theoretically. But they can't be sure without testing it, and there's no way Papyrus will choose to let that happen - not when there's every risk that the stolen chunk below would pull the rest of him to it, and mean his brother would be stuck out of reach indefinitely. It's not an acceptable risk.)
He sets these reminders to periodically populate in his awareness the next several hours, and braces himself just in time for cracks to spread up his left arm abruptly and severely enough for a couple fingers to come loose. The whole thing burns like someone's been mis-soldering inside it again, or like a stubborn electrical soul flared out at the wrong moment. But more urgently, a sudden crack in his torso breaks directly through his main internal fan, warping a blade such that it scratches the hell out of that cavity before breaking loose.
Papyrus forces the fan off, gritting his jaw as he tries and fails to turn off the pain receptors in his arm, tries and succeeds at not obviously collapsing over it. There's a few other errors chiming for his attention - something in his hip, something in his right temple port, and now that he's squinting up at Sans's partly repaired limbs he can hear a faint musical melody from everything red, pink, or similarly colored in sight... And he has no idea what's causing that kind of synesthesia error.]
...Okay. I can only imagine... How much pain you were in, there. [His voice isn't strained with the pain, but only because the recorded quality of it is more monotone than usual. His face would be giving some of it away. There's no point really hiding it, but he can point out his minimal regrets by adding:] I didn't even know you could be that injured.
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He sets these reminders to periodically populate in his awareness the next several hours, and braces himself just in time for cracks to spread up his left arm abruptly and severely enough for a couple fingers to come loose. The whole thing burns like someone's been mis-soldering inside it again, or like a stubborn electrical soul flared out at the wrong moment. But more urgently, a sudden crack in his torso breaks directly through his main internal fan, warping a blade such that it scratches the hell out of that cavity before breaking loose.
Papyrus forces the fan off, gritting his jaw as he tries and fails to turn off the pain receptors in his arm, tries and succeeds at not obviously collapsing over it. There's a few other errors chiming for his attention - something in his hip, something in his right temple port, and now that he's squinting up at Sans's partly repaired limbs he can hear a faint musical melody from everything red, pink, or similarly colored in sight... And he has no idea what's causing that kind of synesthesia error.]
...Okay. I can only imagine... How much pain you were in, there. [His voice isn't strained with the pain, but only because the recorded quality of it is more monotone than usual. His face would be giving some of it away. There's no point really hiding it, but he can point out his minimal regrets by adding:] I didn't even know you could be that injured.