She knows he tends towards insomnia, and she knows the signs well enough not to have to ask. Scully, on the other hand, can sleep nearly anywhere; she dozes off on stakeouts, in waiting rooms, long car ridges when she's not consciously making the effort. A lifetime of staying so busy she needs to snatch every minute she can, maybe. Maybe it's just growing up in the chaos of base housing.

What it means is: it honestly doesn't matter if he sleeps on the floor. Not for a night.

"We'll be fine," she says decisively, like it's not weird to take your friend to bed. It's against protocol, sure, but there are always extenuating circumstances. The equivalent of a town with one motel room left. It's fine.

She does soften a little, though, when she looks at him.

"Synchrony," she points out. "It'll help you relax."