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"The river runs cold, the fight is over./Still the haunted ruins of night call your name."
His hands are gentle. They must be, with what is to come. He runs a finger along the scar, the one across his stomach. He can't recall how he got it. He can't recall how he got most of them. He looks around, in this room that is not his, in a house that is not his, and he knows something, something, is missing. The hands of another, he thinks. The number of times he rolls over in bed, expecting somebody to be beside him, cannot be happenstance. Yes, he must be gentle, because he is waiting. Waiting is a gentle task, if you can manage it. It only becomes harsh when you doubt his return. Whose return? He'll be back, and it'll all make sense, then. Yes. He'll be back, and all I have to do is wait. Patience. Gentle, now. I don't want to startle him with too many changes, when he comes back. Who?
♾
"Who is this monster, drawing near to me/Am I the man that I appear to be,/or am I someone I don't know?"
I know that man.
"I know you."
"Of course you do! Let me in, Agent!" He snarls, the man who called him Agent, and tries to push past him. He is allowed in with little resistance.
"How do I know you?"
The man, who seems as feral as a wild cat, turns on his heel and fixes "Agent" with an incredulous look.
"How do you know me-!" He gears up for an onslaught, hopefully of words, and "Agent" immediately straightens up, eyes wide. "I leave for ten months, and the entire world forgets me! I expected better of you, Agent!"
There is it again, "agent." He blinks, staring at those red-sheen goggles. He knows this dance, the steps are muscle memory. Why can't he recall the tune of the song? He bites the inside of his cheek, unable to produce an answer. Something in the man's eyes changes, behind those goggles.
"You really don't know who I am." He says, and it's not a question this time. "Agent" nods, once, still at attention (at attention? What?). "This is absurd. I am never surprised, Agent, but this! This has certainly thrown me off-course." He says. The man tears away, pacing wildly around the house. "Fools, they were, to not change your name, but everybody is a fool compared to me!"
"Yes, sir." Comes the immediate response, a reflex. "Agent" is just as surprised as the not-stranger. "Y-hold on. Why don't you tell me who you are?"
The man, the stranger, is suddenly uncannily still.
"Mhm. I had a friend, an old, wicked friend, who called it 'mind-sweeping.' You can never erase a memory. You can only sweep it under the rug." He says, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "I am none other than the Doctor Ivo Robotnik, and you are none other than my humble servant, Agent Stone."
The Agent collapses. The man, the Doctor, barely manages to catch him.
"Ah, well. A minor setback. One I can easily overcome. Off to the bedroom with you, Aban." He says, and he hauls the man up on unsteady arms and trundles his way off to the bedroom. Yes. A minor setback, nothing more. I promise.
♾
"I know you,/I danced with you once upon a dream."
His eyes are heavy, when he wakes, and his head is pounding. Where is he? The bedroom. This feels like the bedroom, the weight of his blankets, the shift in air as Ivo moves-
He is awake, now, wide awake, holy shit! What the fuck! Oh my god, oh my god-
"Aban! Quiet down!" The not-stranger yells, Ivo, Ivo!!! Ivo, I'm sorry! Ivo, Ivo, I-
"I said quiet down, you imbecile." Ivo says, and now his hand is on Aban's jaw and he's ecstatic and terrified and-and Ivo is talking. "There. That's better. I need you to take a deep breath, alright? Now, this is going to be the only time I ever tell you this, but I need you to not think too hard, alright?" A muffled "mhm" and Ivo is drawing his hand away. Aban takes a shuddering breath, another, god, he hasn't had this much clarity in-in how long? How long has it been?
"I've been away approximately ten months." Ivo says, and while he thinks Aban is too panicked to be listening, he mutters, "What did they do to you?"
"I don't-I don't know. It's all... blurred. It's a blur, it's all blurry, I don't know-I don't know who you are! Do I? You're-you're my-" Aban is choking on his words, he bites down on a knuckle, and Ivo decides sedatives might be a good idea. If he could only leave Aban's side.
"Deep breaths, Aban. I don't need an answer right this minute. We'll figure it out."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. We'll figure it out. I promise."
"Okay, Doc."
♾
"I look into my eyeholes and what do I see?/Look into my eyeholes, tell me what you see!"
It's been a month, and Aban still sometimes does not recognize the man in his house. They're working on it. Gentle hands. Gentle promises. Waiting.
Even when Ivo's eyes are wild, frantic, his hands are gentle. He speaks loudly, often louder than Aban would like, as if to say "I am here, and I will make my presence known. You'll never forget me again, whether you like it or not." He will not eat mushrooms, for reasons he refuses to disclose. Aban lets it slide with a chuckle. It's quite alright.
Aban can never remember where he put things. Whether he did things. What time it is. He sets reminders on his phone, specific timers with labels so he can never forget. It helps, when he remembers where his phone is. Ivo isn't a neurologist, but that doesn't mean he can't throw himself into his research on the topic. Aban always remembers to bring him food and water, somehow.
They make it work, a half-empty man, and a man overflowing. Yes, two wrongs don't make a right, but they make do.