Guess that puts a nail in that ol' coffin, huh? Yeah. He's real pleased about that one. His smile more accurately approximates a grimace in that moment. The doc - well, if he didn't know any better (he does), he'd say he's leering right about now. He'd say he's enjoying this on some level.
Always could read people real well. Sometimes it's a blessing. Mostly it's just a point of irritation he wishes he didn't have to read all the damn time.
They didn't seem to mind his presence, he says. His hands almost curl into fists in his pockets, tips of phalanges pressing into bony palms, but he don't give the doc the satisfaction of looking away, and he don't let up for a second. Not gonna let the doc know, not for even an instant, that he might be gettin' to Sans.
He won't.
That ain't in the cards.
So he keeps his sockets locked onto his, and he keeps smiling as though nothing is wrong.
"Guess that makes everyone pretty lucky," he says, knowing that the doc, contrarian that he is, tends to hold a certain measure of distaste for concepts such as luck, lumping it in with fate or destiny. He'd call it a superstitious desire to impose some means of order or control on a life that utterly lacks it, or somethin' along those lines - tryin' to pretend a correlation exists to make it seem like there's some aspect that could, hypothetically, be influenced to alter the trajectory of things.
"Lemme give ya a bit of friendly advice, then." He closes one socket in a wink. The right one. "Maybe think of steerin' clear of 'em in the future, and any other kids you might find. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, would ya?"
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Guess that puts a nail in that ol' coffin, huh? Yeah. He's real pleased about that one. His smile more accurately approximates a grimace in that moment. The doc - well, if he didn't know any better (he does), he'd say he's leering right about now. He'd say he's enjoying this on some level.
Always could read people real well. Sometimes it's a blessing. Mostly it's just a point of irritation he wishes he didn't have to read all the damn time.
They didn't seem to mind his presence, he says. His hands almost curl into fists in his pockets, tips of phalanges pressing into bony palms, but he don't give the doc the satisfaction of looking away, and he don't let up for a second. Not gonna let the doc know, not for even an instant, that he might be gettin' to Sans.
He won't.
That ain't in the cards.
So he keeps his sockets locked onto his, and he keeps smiling as though nothing is wrong.
"Guess that makes everyone pretty lucky," he says, knowing that the doc, contrarian that he is, tends to hold a certain measure of distaste for concepts such as luck, lumping it in with fate or destiny. He'd call it a superstitious desire to impose some means of order or control on a life that utterly lacks it, or somethin' along those lines - tryin' to pretend a correlation exists to make it seem like there's some aspect that could, hypothetically, be influenced to alter the trajectory of things.
"Lemme give ya a bit of friendly advice, then." He closes one socket in a wink. The right one. "Maybe think of steerin' clear of 'em in the future, and any other kids you might find. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, would ya?"