Sunday afternoon, Bobby realizes he's been tricked. Alison will pay.

[x-coldhands.livejournal.com]

Bobby knocks on the door of the study the professor had designated for Dr. Samson to conduct his sessions in. He's a bit apprehensive, but Angelo had managed to set his mind at ease, a bit.

"Come in," Leonard calls out pleasantly, leaning back in the chair of the office as sunlight streams through the windows and into the room, giving it a warm, comfortable glow. The weather has been exceptional ever since his arrival, something that he's used to the utmost to help the various students and staff members he's seen feel at ease while talking to him.

Bobby pushes the door open, closing it behind him and crossing the room, hand extended. "Hi. I'm Bobby Drake." He smiles, relieved to note that his hands aren't much colder than normal--much.

Rising from his chair with ease, Leonard steps around the desk and reaches out, shaking Bobby's hand with a firm, warm grasp. Bobby can easily make out the low ponytail the tall man wears as he turns to glance at his desk, before looking back to give him an easy smile. "I'm Dr. Samson, as you already know. It's a pleasure to meet you. Would you prefer I call you by your first name, or Mr. Drake," he inquires, giving Bobby the option to set the terms, rather than make any assumptions - far be it of him to assume too much familiarity here.

Bobby laughs nervously. "Oh, just Bobby's fine. Mr. Drake makes me feel so old...even my students call me Bobby." He grins a bit sheepishly.

"Bobby it is, then," the doctor says, his voice a warm baritone. He gestures for Bobby to take a seat, either on the couch on the side of the room, at an angle with the desk, or the arm chair that has been installed in front of the desk. Formal or informal, his pick. Which already, will be telling Leonard a fait bit, of course, as to his patient's state of mind.

Without glancing at the couch, Bobby seats himself in the armchair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "So...how does this work, then?"

This doesn't merit a note in and of itself, though it does angle the session in a certain direction, and Samson, living up to his habit, answers a question with a question. "Well, Bobby, mostly it's like this," he sits down as well, leaning back comfortably, expression calm and open. "How can I help you?"

"I'm actually just here because a friend asked me to come. I don't really need any help," Bobby answers quickly, smiling. He absently twirls his thumbs around each other.

A nod greets that explanation, and the man pulls a pad of paper closer at hand, along with a pen. He looks up at Bobby however, before even picking up the pen. "Is it all right if I take notes, Bobby? Or would you rather I didn't? They're for my own reference alone and it would greatly surprise me if anyone made sense of them, you should know. Also, anything we may discuss, even the weather," he chuckled lightly, "shall still remain strictly confidential."

Bobby glances at the notepad, but having been warned ahead of time by Angelo, he just shrugs. "Sure, that's fine. Don't know that you'll have much to write about, though."

Hands resting before him he keeps a clear gaze on Bobby, breathing low and calm. "What makes you say that, Bobby?" he asks, not even the ghost of contradiction in his voice - merely plain curiosity and interest in what Bobby has to say on the matter.

"Well...you're here to talk to people about what happened here, right? I wasn't really involved, much. The only thing I had to do with it was helping a few friends out, when a fire got out of control..." He thinks about John, and how grateful he was to hear that he hadn't intentionally hurt Angelo, even though he'd known in his heart that it couldn't be true. "And they're both doing okay."

Having spoken to Angelo already as well as having some idea of what happened, Samson merely nods once, leaning his chin in his hand, not quite ready to take notes yet, although he has noted something interesting already. "The fire going out of control and seeing your friends hurt must not have been easy," he murmurs idly. "At least you had the chance to help them out."

Bobby nods. "Yeah...Paige was the real hero that night, though. I was just...backup, I guess you could say. Most of it was over by the time I got there." He shrugs. "I just tried to minimize Angelo's pain and injuries as best I could, until they could get him to the medlab."

Leaning back, Samson idly reaches for the pen, taking a few notes, before turning a clear gaze back on Bobby again. "Why do you feel you were only the backup, Bobby? Helping to minimize Angelo's injuries is by no means something unimportant."

Bobby shifts in his chair and licks his lips. "Oh, I'm not saying I didn't help--I put out the flames, too--but Paige had already gotten them both out of immediate danger. So I just...did what I could, after the fact."

Samson nods at this slowly, remaining silent - Bobby's discomfort obvious, all the signs of course pointing to something bothering him, although what of course could be a myriad things. He gets up and walks towards the nearby table, pouring some water in a glass and walking back to offer it to Bobby.

"Thanks." Bobby accepts the glass, taking a sip of the cool water. "Anyway, like I've been saying, there's really nothing bothering me from the attack. And the other--well, I wasn't even involved in it." And actually tried to avoid finding out any more about it than he had to, as there's enough bothering him currently, without searching out more triggers for his nightmares.

"Ah," and he smiles kindly, laying the pen down again, seemingly satisfied. "Well, being uninvolved in something doesn't mean one can't be affected by it. Still," he pauses, briefly. "Should I understand you've not been having problems with nightmares, unlike some of the students?"

"Nightmares about the attacks? Nope, can't say as I've had any of those," Bobby replies, perhaps a bit too brightly, choosing his words carefully. He takes another drink of water, not noticing that the water temperature has dropped sharply already, and a light layer of frosted condensation is creeping outward from his hand.

Of course, this hardly goes unnoticed by Samson. However the good doctor keeps a straight face, not letting this show as he leans back in his chair once more, waiting for a moment to see if the phenomena will continue - or come to Bobby's attention.

And it does. "Shit," he whispers, quickly setting the glass down on a nearby table and pressing his palm firmly to his thigh. "Sorry...having a bit of a control problem, lately," he admits reluctantly.

Now that is interesting. A small note is jotted down and Samson considers that for a moment. "Quite all right." He looks at the glass for a moment longer, then turns back to look at Bobby. "Has this been happening at regular intervals or for a specific reason, that you can tell?"

Crap. "It seems to...be tied into my emotional state," he finally says, sighing. "When I get excited, or tense, or stressed..." Hmm...maybe he can pass it off as just the stress of talking to a shrink in the first place.

"Well, it seems as thought you're already aware of what causes the power fluctuations," Samson smiles calmly. "Have you perhaps determined what the triggers that cause the emotional reactions linked to the power control issues might be as well?"

Bobby shrugs, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "It's just...pretty much anything that upsets me, or excites me..." Okay, time to drop the body temp and kill that blush...

The pen makes no sound as it glides over the paper, more notes being jotted down. "But you didn't have this problem before, if I understand right, from the way you've been speaking about this?"

"No...no, it's recent." Oh, hell...the guy probably knows at least something of what happened to him. "Since I got back from being held hostage," he forces out, a soft crackling noise filling the quiet room as he flexes his hand, breaking the sheen of ice that had cemented it to his jeans. He fists both hands and shoves them into his pockets, frowning at his lack of control.

Tilting his head to the side at the sound, Samson nods gently, waiting a moment to give Bobby the chance to regain his composure. There's already more than enough for him to strongly suggest another session, after all, and pushing too far would serve no purpose here.

Bobby takes a deep breath, eyeing the water longingly--but it's still not safe to pick it up. Heck, it'd probably be frozen over by the time he got it to his mouth. "It's gotten better, over the months," he finally tells the doctor. "At first, it was constant...then completely unpredictable. I had to wear thermal gloves for a while." See? Getting better. He doesn't need to be here.

"Bobby, may I ask you if you had the chance to speak to anyone, about what happened, while you were held hostage?" The words are low and the voice soothing, despite the words themselves, as Samson looks on at him calmly, a hint of concern edging his voice however.

"No," Bobby answers flatly. "I didn't want to talk to anyone." He smells a rat now...a rat named Blaire. She'd tricked him, that's what she'd done. DEAD.

Samson nods amiably at that, suspecting Bobby might already suspect what he's going to say next, really - but time is running out for this talk, unfortunately, with another appointment coming in soon. "Well. If you've no objections, Bobby, I think it might be wise for us to meet again. I'll email you with a new appointment time," he suggests, taking a card from his pocket and handing it to him across the desk.

Bobby sighs, knowing he's caught. Neatly. "Sure," he replies listlessly, taking the card with still ice cold fingers.