"He," Mulder repeats, looking down at his hand with a sickening sense of awe. Something under her skin moves, maybe a kick or maybe just the shift of a small body in an increasingly smaller space. Maybe it shifted, and that was its shoulder. Maybe its hand, pressing out through layers of flesh to try and match his father's. "He's a - he's a he?"

He's real, is what he means. He's a real child in there, who really belongs to a sobbing woman and her wet-eyed, staring lover, a child born of miracles. He's the closest Mulder's ever gotten to believing in God - this very moment, feeling the vague outline of baby underneath what he assumes is the latest in stylish maternity wear. I did this. I made this happen. I'm sorry your mother's crying so hard - I didn't mean to do that. You can feel the vibrations, can't you? Has she cried like this the whole time? Promise me she hasn't cried like this the whole time.