It's hard not to feel enormous when she's usually so slight; the truth is it doesn't bother her. Scully has a streak of vanity, now and then, but pregnancy is something different. It's victorious-- each inch, each pound she's gained proof of the life she's creating.

The crying part, that she's less enamored with, but right now she lets herself sob and laugh against him, letting it out.

"And eat soup and dumplings?"

She'll call this a holy day, easily. They could fill a calendar with remembrances-- the day he first called her a spy, the months she spent wasting away, the moment they first kissed. The day she asked him to give her a child and the day he agreed. When he was taken, and when he returned, and when he was resurrected; there are dark days, after all, fasts and solemn remembrances.

"I like it," she mumbles, looking up at him, red-eyed but somehow still beaming. "You can say it more often than that, though."

She'll try not to cry every single time.