"Skinner would," he agrees. He's known both of them too long not to be aware on some level. Hell, even Kersh has probably figured it out, if only because of Bureau gossip, and the same for the elusive John Doggett. (Agent Doggett is no longer a focus of speculation and resentment, now that he and Scully have absolutely, positively never fallen into bed together, but that just means speculation and resentment will have to wait until they've met.)

Maggie Scully, on the other hand, felt like a less predictable reaction. He always feels like the tagalong neighbor kid when he sees her; it's impossible not to default to calling her Mrs. Scully and hoping vaguely that he'll be invited to dinner rather than sent home. She's never been anything but kind to him, welcoming even when her own son would have rather seen him out of the picture, but that doesn't mean she'd appreciate his knocking Scully up and disappearing into the night.

But it soothes something in him, to know he's not persona non grata in the Scully family. (The part of the Scully family that matters to him, anyway. Who knows what Bill thinks, and more importantly, who cares? And it's not like he has more than a passing familiarity with Charlie Scully's existence.) He doesn't have anyone to offer this kid, only stories of people who died long before his conception. Scully's family will have to be everything to him - and it'll be easier, better, if they're still willing to be something to Mulder, too.

"Call her tomorrow," he says quietly, before he can change his mind. "I don't know how soon they're going to let me back at the files, even with an unbelievably good bill of health. So if you want to do...I don't know, baby stuff..."

Do they have to buy things for it? Does he have to sign paperwork? Under better circumstances, he would have had time to figure this out.