That gave Sans pause, he thinks. Sans is hard to read, downright impossible at times, and apparently age has turned him into an outright enigma. But he keeps on that brave, blank face, not flinching, not looking away.

He has gotten better at this. Has immunized himself against the doctor, though that is perhaps an overdramatic way of putting it. Much as Sans claims that whatever his own doctor did to him is irrelevant, there is something very personal to all of this.

Luck, he calls it, and the doctor almost rolls his eyelights. But he does not move or make a sound. His hands are still.

They twitch at the next thing he says. The doctor bristles.

"Are you threatening me now, Sans? Is that what this has devolved into?"

There is a certain incredulity to his gestures.

"I have no ill intentions here whatsoever. I have been brought here against my will. This place is a curiosity, the people here of middling interest. What is it you think I am going to do? Attack them? Absorb their soul? Drive them mad with my mere presence? You underestimate the common mind's ability to shut out that which threatens its stability."

Though he is not a psychologist in any sense, nor does he particularly care if a few human children suffer a mental breakdown or two.

"More than that, you underestimate your pet humans. As you always have." He jabs a finger at Sans, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. "Years later and you have yet to excise that naive streak of yours."