There's really nothing to apologize for, but she doesn't say that. It's nice to wake up tucked against somebody that way. (Whatever extracurricular synchrony she gets up to, Scully is not habitually a cuddler. That doesn't mean she doesn't like it, only that she does not generally allow for it.)

It's been six months without him breathing down her neck. She could be more bothered by it.

"You slept," she points out, uncurling and daintily wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. It's a simple fact. She doesn't bother to qualify it as good or bad because it's sleep, and that is never a guarantee for him. Medically, this is a simple therapeutic success.

"I don't suppose you invested in a coffeepot?"