What is going on, Sans? Croc's looking about ready to dive for his throat; but a large bruise, a cracked scale, flecks of blood around the scalloped edge. Maybe from extreme heat-- or incredible pressure. Or both.

It might be a mystery to someone who isn't Sans.

"You ain't been a slacker yourself."

He hasn't actually been able to catch himself a dinner besides the cat; one because of the Batman, one because of hesitation, one because he was a great deal stronger than Croc expected, and this one...

well, maybe his luck was about to turn around.

"Not gonna pull out your cannons again? Barely slowed me down the first time--"

he growls, low in his throat.

"Maybe you've learned something other than running away."

And then he lurches forwards with deceptive speed, claws coming down in such a way as to split Sans' head right open if he doesn't move.