"Nearly, I think," she muses. "Admittedly I've only gotten a good look at one other one. I think it's proportional, she's about your height."

It's strange to talk about it. Scully is about as comfortable as she's going to get, she thinks, with her other body, but the fact of the change still bothers her. The very idea of something being done to her; her body changed against her will for someone else's aims, it never sits well with her. The physicality bothers her less and less, but on principle she still thinks: it's not her.

She's not sure-- and she doesn't want to ask-- what he thinks about the fact that it's a snake. Her tattoo is something of an open secret, but she's never shown him; there have been enough moments when he could have seen it, in the course of one decontamination or another, some injury, some half-remembered moment. There might be pictures in the crime scene materials from Philadelphia. But there are too many good reasons not to talk about all that.

So she just sighs.

"You'll get to see eventually, I'm sure."