[Sans is telling them they have to calm down, and it makes sense--it makes perfect sense--because if you're calm, you're quiet, and if you're quiet, you're not babbling every thought that comes into your goddamn head, but how the hell is he supposed to keep calm when--?]

[A candy bar nails him right in the cheek, and he flinches hard, elbow jerking up to cover his face.]

[There's too much going on.]

[And then Tim starts yelling about him, at him, and it's like someone screwed in a telephoto lens. He scrambles out of the seat, standing up to his full height--not particularly impressive back home, but he's now aware that he's actually taller than everybody else in this theater.]

You didn't get me killed. [For once, the words come out slow, precise.]

You lied to me for--for months, while we looked for answers you already knew, you fed me pills when I was unconscious, you tied me up and left so you could find Alex first, but you didn't get me killed.

But you know what's worse than everything? You keep helping. You keep--you keep listening.

How am I supposed to interpret that?