Mulder stood in front of the receptionist's desk, feeling the weight of frustration pressing down on him. His fingers were gripping the edge of the counter, the usual calm he tried to maintain slipping with every passing second. He had been trying for hours to get inside the facility, to see Scully, and every time he was met with the same impassive refusal.
He had expected some resistance—Scully was in a mental health facility, after all. But the way the receptionist spoke to him, the flat, clinical tone, had a note of something else beneath it. Something that set off a few alarms in his mind.
"I need to speak to her," Mulder said, his voice barely controlled. "I'm her partner. I've been by her side for years. You don't understand the situation. I have to see her."
The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with glasses perched low on her nose, looked up at him with a sharp, almost dismissive gaze. She didn't even blink as she spoke. "I'm sorry, but that would be counterproductive to her therapy, Mr. Mulder. She needs to understand what's going on with her before she can face people from her outside life. Visitors can cause setbacks, you see."
Mulder's brow furrowed at the words *counterproductive*. There was something about the way she phrased it, the coldness in her tone, that felt off. This wasn't the first time he had been to a facility like this, but it was the first time he had encountered someone so unwavering, so calculated in their refusal.
"Let me talk to her doctor," he pressed, leaning slightly forward. "I have every right to speak to someone who's treating her. I can't just wait around here like this."
The receptionist's response was swift, almost rehearsed. "You're not a relative, her husband, or legal guardian. I cannot give you any information, Mr. Mulder. Normally, a patient would be allowed visitors after four weeks, but as Agent Scully hasn't been very cooperative with her treatment so far, this deadline may be extended."
Mulder's jaw tightened. *Cooperative?* He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Scully—*his* Scully—was *never* one to simply sit by and let herself be pushed around. She had fought harder than anyone he knew, and the idea that she was being painted as uncooperative made his blood run cold.
His fingers clenched into fists, but he forced himself to take a breath. Losing his temper wouldn't help. He had to keep his cool, at least on the surface. But inside, every warning bell was ringing loudly.
"What does that even mean?" Mulder asked, his voice low, dangerous. "What are you really trying to tell me? What's going on with her in there? And why *hasn't* she been cooperating?"
The receptionist's eyes flicked to the side, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, she hesitated, then she looked back at him with that same unblinking stare. "I've already told you everything I can. Now, I suggest you leave. You wouldn't want to disrupt her progress."
Mulder stood still, his thoughts racing, his mind running through all the possibilities. This wasn't about therapy or cooperation. There was something else at play here, something he wasn't being told. His gut was telling him that Scully was being controlled—*manipulated*—and he wasn't going to leave until he knew the truth.
With a calmness he didn't feel, Mulder gave the receptionist one last look. He wasn't going to give up so easily, not when Scully's life—*her* life—was on the line.
"I'm not leaving," he said firmly. "You can't keep me from seeing her. You *will* let me talk to her doctor. And if you don't, I'll make sure you regret it."
The receptionist didn't flinch, her expression remaining a perfect mask of professionalism. But Mulder could see the tension in her eyes—the flicker of fear that she couldn't hide.