"Ohhh. That's... that sounds. Acceptable," Papyrus concedes, with an attempt at nonchalance as slow and stumbling as his own steps would be. He knows he tries not to let on to his brother when serious things are wrong, especially not things that Sans can't help with. He tries to keep the earnest expressions of frustration to the more superficial, to the things they can joke about or the things they can more easily resolve. Complaints about cleaning, complaints about food choices, complaints that lead into chances to brag about his brilliant oncoming plans.

It's hard to focus enough to do anything of that, so he admits, "I could, probably use that. I don't think I slept."

He frowns down at his brother's shoulder, at the sidewalk passing underfoot as their feet find some kind of rhythm to keep from jostling him off. The sidewalk isn't blurring into repetitive imagery the way the video did, but the conversation has something of deja vu to it. "Did I... say that, already? I think I said that."