Of all people, Scully understands that sometimes you need a sharp edge to things. It doesn't unsettle her-- not after last night, when he was so tender, so earnest, his affection overwhelming. If he needs it to sting a little, in the light of day, to round things out, she doesn't mind obliging. Certainly it seems to be helping, judging by the way he's half- hard beneath her, thrilling and thick and so close to where she wants him.

There's no help for it-- she has to wriggle off his lap enough to straighten her legs, shoving her pants down abruptly and kicking them off across the floor. For good measure she lets the top flutter off too, and then back on his lap, straddling his thighs. In the daylight she knows she's too thin, too pale, and doesn't want to call attention to it; not when she can kiss him instead, deep and hungry.