Even the discomfort is, in its odd way, a triumph. She remembers trying to swallow back bitter jealousy when Tara was pregnant and grousing about stretch marks-- knowing her sister-in-law was in the midst of something she couldn't have. The truth is she'd always wanted children in a vague, unhurried way-- until it stopped being an option. That had been the worst time to try and grieve possibility, when she should have been overjoyed for her brother. (And she was, truly. Scully has always been good at compartmentalizing. But, God, there had been some difficult nights.)

William shifts and settles, and she feels her eyes well up again-- happy tears she doesn't shed, just a product of the overwhelming sense of being home, here in Mulder's arms.

"I hadn't decided," she admits. "Couldn't exactly call him William William to honor both sides of his heritage."