He looks at her for a moment, not so much uncomprehending as unsure he comprehends right. This isn't the Scully he last saw at the J. Edgar Hoover Building a week ago. It's not not her, either - but it's hard to square that woman with the one stretched out on his blankets, asking for coffee.

(Maybe that's unfair of him, assuming she'd be tense and stressed out at the idea of waking up as the little spoon. She of all people knows bodies, and everything they're capable of when they're asleep.)

(Maybe what's really bothering him is the fact that he's bothered. But that would require admitting as much to himself.)

"I slept," he agrees, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up oddly despite that, no thanks to what's clearly a missing chunk on the left side. "If you could market that, you'd make a mint, you know. And there's a place across the street."