Summary: I guess that's one way to put it-

Ink sat, hunched over his desk, thinking- and not working on the mountain of paperwork that needed to be completed by the end of the day.

Not that the chance of it getting finished was high to begin with.

Frowning, Dream placed a cup of green tea down in front of the artist. Something he'd been hoping would aid the forgetful Sans into working better. "Ink... You've had on your thinking face for quite a while now. I'm growing concerned."

Ink blinked and looked toward him with (faux) curiosity, mismatched eyelights flashing various symbols/colors. "Why do people say, 'Butterflies dance in my stomach when you're around?' I know it's supposed to be one of those emotional things, but why can't the eldritch demons of my past sins be dancing in my stomach because they're just as happy to see you alive as I am?"

"I..." The Guardian of Positivity sighed, pinching the bridge of his nasal cavity. "Why do you think of these things instead of working?"