Lucas is silent as the elevator begins moving again, in an ambiguously maybe-up-maybe-down stomach-lurching fashion that fills the small space with its oppressive hum again. He hasn't turned around towards the doors yet, but stands and stares at the back of the elevator instead for a long moment. His breathing is a little funny. His grip has slackened on the baseball bat so much that it's just about to slip out of his hand entirely.

But after a few moments he seems to pull himself together, with some visible effort. A long, deep breath exhaled with a sigh--and then he turns around, blinking down to find Frisk crouching on the floor behind him. The buttons catch his attention, and Lucas frowns at them.

"Stop that," he mutters, poking at one of the cameras. (Poking at himself, a little, for letting it get that bad--no excuse for that. It's not very fair to Frisk at all.) The lenses recede back into the wall a little, reluctant to disappear entirely but apparently chastened enough for the moment; and then Lucas crouches down beside Frisk, setting the baseball bat on the floor between them for now.

"...Sorry." He folds his arms around his knees. "I know you didn't mean it like that."