Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet:
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Aedh wishes for the cloths of Heaven – W. B. Yeats



I couldn't believe it was actually true when you told me what you were planning to do. I knew that your religion was important to you, sure, but I didn't know it had gotten to this point. I didn't know that you wanted to practice said religion in a convent setting, away from the rest of the world. Away from me. Hell, Scully, I expected everyone else to disappear on me, but somehow I never quite expected it of you. A convent? It just isn't you, Scully.

You were planning on telling me when? After you left the FBI? Jesus, Scully, do the years we spent together mean so little to you that you were prepared to just give them up, like that, without telling me anything? Scully … surely you know by now what you mean to me?

I've loved you since I can remember, Scully, and I'm so, so sorry I never saw fit to let you know. I can't deal with this, Scully. I can't lose you, not again; I need you, can't you see that?

I tried – grant me that, at least. I tried harder than I thought myself capable – tried anything and everything I could think of. I even tried courting you; you told me it wouldn't change your mind, but being the fool I am when it concerns you, I refused to listen.

Nothing worked. Nothing.

You ignored everything; for once, dead set on doing something that didn't involve me. Nothing in my life has ever hurt so much. You said, in a voice dead of all feeling, a voice not at all like the Scully I know, that I could have your apartment, save for the things you needed to bring with you, and those small things you wished your family and friends to have as remembrances.

I didn't want your apartment. I wanted you, except – stubborn woman that you are – you refused to see that. Or maybe you did see, and decided to ignore it since it didn't fit in with what you wanted in your life.

The last gift you gave me was the most painful, considering how much money you don't know I possess. You transferred all the funds in your bank account (the money you said you had hoarded for a retirement that now would never happen) to mine … told me to look after it, in case you didn't actually stay in the life.

God, Scully. In theory, I could become you – your money, your apartment – except you, the one woman who perhaps could have saved me, will be somewhere I'll never be able to reach you again