Get him her number, because as greasy as Sans' t-shirt was before, he's going to kind of care about all the red stuff on it. At least his jacket was clean. Of blood.

Speaking of. Sans blinks. The nudging does it, because otherwise he would have just dozed off again. His pinprick eyes reappear after a couple blinks, and the glow in his soul suddenly fades.

"Hnhmph."

It takes a good thirty seconds to register what's happening. Where he is. Who's talking. What did they say again? Oh, yeah. His head lulls in the other Sans' direction with a bleary, heavy-lidded look.

"He started it."

Heh.

"Did anybody get the license number?"