The monster nods its emphatic agreement with Mettaton's assessment of lemons. If it had a tongue, it would be sticking out right now. "Blergh."

And then the other monster carries on and...sweetheart and darling and Frisk and Mettaton, this is Mettaton.

...ordinarily, this might not be his favorite person to remember. But here and now, Sans just grins broadly and sits up a little straighter, the tip of his tail starting to wag a little where it remains draped over one foot.

He considers telling the truth, thinks about how many words that would take, and discards the idea. Mettaton will probably be glad to have him out from underfoot, anyway.

"Liar. Thanks anyway." He really does mean it. Sans certainly feels too big and too spiky and too terrifying.