Sans is still slumped on one side of the bed, his eyesockets just barely open and staring at nothing very much. Sans-Serif is sitting perched on the other side of the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, his chin resting on them. When Frisk speaks, he reaches over to roughly shake himself by the shoulder. "wake up."

It's an argument they've been having on and off for a while now. Sans' expression flickers into a sullen sort of glower, but after Sans-Serif shakes his shoulder again, he manages to struggle upright into a sitting position. Even he knows that it's that, or fall asleep in the middle of whatever Frisk has come to say.

He stares at them and tries to feel...much of anything. Relief that they're okay. Worry at whatever they might have come to say. He feels neither. He's so tired. But he manages a reply, even if it's only: "mm?"