Of course she's going to worry about him. When does she not?

Scully has always been good at dropping off to sleep in odd moments and strange places; she offers a drowsy smile up at him. With the shock wearing off, the outlandish appearance doesn't register as much. He's just Mulder, in every way that matters; the faint, beachy scent of dry grass and wild roses isn't what she thinks of as him but it's familiar and soothing nonetheless.

She means to wish him good night, sort of, but all she manages is a vague hum as she curls onto her side to doze off.