[Papyrus stares back, nearly unmoving at the sight. It's been months of relative good cheer, with only occasional frights and lingering concerns over who they really were. Now it's freshly alarming, to see Sans like this, all choked up with self-loathing.

Practiced stiffness keeps Papyrus from looking away uncomfortably, or slouching with the fresh weight on his shoulders. Unhappy with it all, but unwilling to look away, lest his brother think he's agreeing and ashamed of him, or ashamed to be agreeing. But there is a little shame in his voice, as a sense of responsibility pushes him to interrupt the moment:]

I... I would have considered it. Who wouldn't wonder, sometimes, about... wanting to fix things. That's... nothing to be ashamed of. [He only finds himself a little ashamed for wording his self-praise in such a way that Sans could use it to bludgeon himself. The worst possible result.]