That... the problem... [He stumbles a little on the word, the p and b and m all more difficult for his lips when bunched up like that.] It isn't the couch, brother. We can bolt down a couch. It's...

[Papyrus can already feel himself getting low on breath, and he's barely gotten worked up. Little exercise and little food, catching up to him again. He hisses annoyance between gritted teeth, slows down to try to subtly catch his breath again.]

Surgeons. You know, doctors. We need... [To not get that close to the real problems, when they're still out in the open where people can see his face. He scrabbles for a more bantering sentiment, and settles on:] We need to get some apples.