He couldn't pull away now. The creature inside her - your son, your son, your son - has a hold on him; it might not be physical, but it keeps his hand splayed flat on her, palm resting against the hard shape of torso or leg or head. He doesn't know what he's feeling, only that he's feeling it, and that's alive, and that it's his.

With effort, he looks up at her again, and he can't bring himself to do anything about the tears that have made paths down his cheeks. He's never been ashamed of crying in front of Scully, and he's not about to start now. "Who knows?"

Everyone knows about the baby, at this point; it's unavoidable. But the baby's origins, its unwitting father, is something else. Has she told people? How much of a secret is he?