Frisk was waiting for her. Or at least wondering if they should--if she was going to stay withdrawn and ignoring them. They wouldn't have been sure what to do if that had been the case.

It's been a while since they woke-slept-woke-again, but parts of them are still sensitive, and the feelings make it worse. Frisk drops the circlet they'd picked up and smash a hand over their face, trying to brush the hideous static-sensation off it.

Judgement's light draws lines where she flickers, too, and on top of it--they're wearing a weird pale blue suit, fancy and nice, but there's lace around the edges and there's a sudden, jarring awareness at how scratchy it is against their neck and wrists.

But she's trying, they know she is, so they don't let the snarl that's building in their throat loose.

"It's..." and Frisk bites back not your fault, since that would be the most idiotic lie that would ever leave their lips if they didn't. They use the hand that's not over their face (pressed right beneath their nose, it feels like it's bleeding even though it's not) to start digging at the lacy edges. They're going to ruin the shirt and they don't care. "It was gonna happen. 'M fine now."