He flinches and closes his eyes, holding in place like he's green (that was just dreams!!), as the floor tears and the pieces fly. One strikes his face, bouncing off to clatter against the floor as Sans' attack (is that even his name?) never strikes.

"...Huh?"

Papyrus opens his eyes, looking around and up at the angel's silent, still, floating form. The gash through the floor extends through where the ward so abruptly stopped him before, and he dares to hope. And he's not dead or wounded.

He scrabbles to his feet, reaching forward and forward and past it... And holds still again. The dream memories want to embrace his good fortune and run with it, unquestioning. The person who's actually lived here, though... he doesn't want to get his hopes up again so quickly in so many minutes. It hurts, and he's so tired of worrying about people.

"I... don't understand. Far be it from me to question good fortune, but. You said, no second chances. And..." He gestures at the door, the floor, the scythe. "That's a gold-plated invitation to a second chance! To, uh, do things better. You're not my brother, why would you..."