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Simon stood at the deck of the ferry, leaning on the railing with his elbows, watching as ahead, through the dense morning fog hovering over the strait, emerged the outlines of his final destination - the isle of Islay. The cold wind stirred the waves, crashing against the ferry's blunt steel nose, seeping through clothing, making tears well in his eyes and leaving a salty taste on his lips. Seagulls circled above the ferry, their desperate, piercing cries making his heart squeeze in an indescribable yearning.
Simon smoked, with the edge of his ever-present balaclava lifted over his nose. He hadn't approved of this foolish habit before, but had picked it up after Johnny's death. At first, cigarettes disgusted him, but eventually he got hooked. The bitter smoke filling his lungs triggered memories of times when he could still feel happiness, when he could feel something other than the dull, oppressive pain that had now become his constant companion.
The outlines of the island became clearer. The wind blew the fog away, the white-capped waves repeatedly clashed against the ferry's sides. Simon felt a kinship with the ever-restless sea, as now, just like the sea, he will never find peace while his tormented heart is still beating. After finishing his cigarette, he tossed the stub overboard and immediately fetched another from the pack. He had no plan, no aim, nothing except the enigmatic words of Captain Price, spoken during their, probably, last encounter.
...”I'm leaving,” Lieutenant Riley said, placing his resignation report on the captain's table.
Price took it, silently glanced over the papers, then raised his head to see Ghost, standing still and staring blankly somewhere past him.
It was over. Vengeance had been achieved; Makarov and all his henchmen were dead. Yet, it brought Simon no solace. He was utterly hollow, dead inside, and he no longer wanted nor could continue his service because he saw no sense in it.
“Where will you go?” Price asked, puffing on his cigar.
“I don't know,” Simon replied indifferently, shrugging his shoulders.
“Then allow me to give you a piece of advice,” the captain nodded towards the chair, and the lieutenant obediently sat down, putting his hands on his knees. “Head to Scotland. There's an island, Islay. Go there, to a small village on the coast, Port Ellen. There's a little pub right on the beach called 'Slice of Peace.' Find it, but don't rush. Observe before entering. Perhaps there, at last, you'll find peace for your soul. At least, that's what I would truly wish for.”...
The ferry arrived to Port Askaig right on schedule, but Simon didn't linger there. Port Ellen was situated almost on the other side of the island, about nineteen miles away. This distance could be covered by car in about forty minutes, but Simon didn't have a car. He had practically nothing except a small backpack with his belongings. Without much appetite, he ate a sandwich at the gas station, then left Port Askaig and, without any hurry, began walking along the road toward Port Ellen. Nineteen miles is a considerable distance for an average person, but not for a retired lieutenant. He understood that the journey would take him five to six hours, but that didn't daunt him. He was capable of walking without stopping for much longer if necessary, and right now, it was more necessary than ever.
About two hours into his journey, near Bridgend Woods, a farmer picked Simon up in a small truck. The truck bed was filled with sheep, and the driver was heading to Laggan Farm, but he offered to drop this strange, silent man in a balaclava off almost at Glendale. The good-natured and compassionate farmer could see that his passenger was consumed by profound sorrow, so he didn't pry into anything. As they bid farewell, he left his address and phone number, offering a visit if Mr. Riley needed a place to stay. Simon thanked him, but as soon as the truck disappeared from sight, he crumpled the piece of paper with the address and threw it away before continuing his way to Port Ellen.
Arriving at Port Ellen, Simon did as Captain Price had instructed him. Not because the retired lieutenant wanted to fulfil his commander's final order, no. Just on his first evening in Port Ellen, upon finding the pub mentioned, Simon saw Johnny there. He was as beautifully fit as ever but had let his hair grow a bit; now he had to tie back his mohawk to keep it from getting in the way when he’s working. John no longer wore military uniform or heavy gear. He was wearing jeans, a high-necked knitted sweater, and a bartender's apron with large pockets. The tattoo he got in the SAS were no longer on his hand, but he had visible scars on his temples.
For nearly a week Simon observed him from early morning until late at night. He didn't stay in the local hotel or anywhere else, spending the cold nights in the docks or in someone's unlocked barn. Simon watched and listened, and after a few days, he knew that John MacTavish had showed up around a year ago with a strange story of awakening in a hospital with no memories of his past life, but with documents and a certain sum of money in his account. After treatment and rehabilitation in Glasgow, MacTavish moved to the Isle of Islay, bought a small house on the coast. He opened a pub on the ground floor and arranged his dwelling on the first floor. Being a Scot, John was eventually accepted into the local community after a couple of months.
Of course, Simon Riley wasn't credulous. He observed and noted any matching characteristic - gestures, expressions, words, and body language that resembled Johnny's usual mannerisms. The retired lieutenant watched how MacTavish worked, solved work-related issues, and interacted with his pub's customers.
Simon really wanted to believe that this man was indeed Johnny. His Johnny, the one who once restored his ability to feel joy, happiness, love; his Johnny, with whom it was easy to work and spend leisure time; his Johnny, who managed to see beyond Ghost in his skull-faced mask, not just a soldier, a killing machine, but a human being. Injured, scarred, broken, but nonetheless - a human being. Simon Riley.
The final straw of these observations was an incident that occurred one evening at one of the tables by the pub, standing right on the sandy shore. John, as always, smiling, full of energy and life, brought four pints of beer to some grey-bearded fishermen. One of them was in the middle of telling a joke, and the cheerful pub owner naturally stopped to listen and laugh along with them.
“ Hey, John, how aboot sharin' a joke wi' us?” one of the fishermen asked, tipping his beer.
“Why no’?” MacTavish's lips lit up with his dazzling smile. “Well, for example... dae ye know what haes two legs an’ bleeds?”
“Mebe it's Lars whan he stabbed himsel' wi' the fishin' huke straicht in...” one of the fishermen started, but another one, the infamous Lars, jabbed him in the side with his fist.
“ Or mebbe it's yer wife on certain days o' the month?” he exclaimed in offense.
“Easy, lads,” the eldest among them thumped the table with his fist and looked at MacTavish. “Sae, whit's the craic, John?”
“Half a dog!” cheerfully replied the man and chuckled, but quickly fell silent, noticing no one echoed his response.
“That's a braw odd joke,” Lars said, shaking his head. “Whaur did ye hear that, John?”
“I... I don't know,” MacTavish said, bewildered, raising his hands. “Maybe it's somethin' from my past life that I don't remember.”
“Maybe it's fer the best tha ye dinnae remember,” the eldest fisherman shook his head. “ It's chilblaining tae picture how it wis wi these jokes.”
That evening, Simon quietly entered the empty pub just before closing. The bell above the door announced his arrival, and John peeked out from the kitchen - no longer wearing his apron, with his hair down, surprise in his remarkably bright blue eyes.
“We're ‘bout to close, sir,” he started, but then suddenly fell silent, catching the look of unspeakably sad brown eyes surrounded by long and blonde lashes. “But, ye know what? Come on in! Ye're not a local, right? Yer lookin' like ye seriously need to doon a few glasses o’ whiskey. Am I right?”
“Yes,” Simon hesitantly approached the bar counter and added, “I’d kill for some whiskey.”
Most of the lights in the room were already off, but the lamps over the bar were still lit, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise as he peered under the hood at the stranger with the skull-printed balaclava.
“What's the getup, sir?” he asked and cheerfully, amiably smiled. “Are you ugly?”
“Quite the opposite,” Simon replied automatically, and they both suddenly froze, looking at each other.
“I'm sorry,” John finally spoke, slowly pouring two glasses of whiskey; he placed one in front of the peculiar visitor and took the other one. “Have we met before? What's your name, sir?”
“Simon,” he replied, and in his hollow dead eyes, for perhaps the first time in a year, flickered faint sparks of hope. “Simon Riley.”
John looked curiously at the late visitor's face as he lifted the edge of his balaclava to take a sip of whiskey but averted his gaze upon realizing his curiosity was noticed. Swirling the glass in his hand, he took a sip and quietly asked:
“Ye're military, Simon Riley?”
“Retired,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “Why do you think so?”
“I don't know,” John said, puzzled, and gave a shy smile, “it was just the first thing that came to mind.”
They sat in the dimly lit pub till the late hours of the night. Simon saw that Johnny was at ease in his company, feeling a sense of trust, although a person who didn’t remember anything from his past life would typically cast suspicion on the stranger in the skull mask. Eventually, the bottle was emptied. The pub owner poured the last drops of whiskey into their glasses and looked at Simon with a tinge of regret.
“So, where are you staying?” he asked, wanting to prolong the parting in every possible way.
“Nowhere, really,” Simon shrugged and let out a quiet yet deeply mournful sigh.
“Ye know,” Johnny spoke slowly, “ye might think I'm mad, but I have a comfortable sofa at home.”
“You're very kind, but I have no money at all,” Simon shook his head and smiled bitterly. “I can only hope what little I have left will cover paying you for this bottle.”
“Oh, no, leave tha’!” John protested, even his hair stood on end. “Ye've been great company, tae be honest, I havenae had a conversation like this with anyone for a long time... not like with you. So, I'm repeatin’ my offer, and as for the money... I wouldnae mind a hand in the pub. What do ye say?”
And Simon agreed.
Over the next few weeks, the retired lieutenant was learning how to live a civilian life. He quickly adapted to his new responsibilities and managed not only to assist John in the pub but also took care of him - preparing breakfast and coffee, tidying the house, buying groceries from local stores. However, Simon did all of this automatically, almost without thinking. The most important thing was that he was once again close to Johnny. Yes, the latter didn't remember him at all, but they spent a lot of time together, discussing everything under the sun. The only thing the retired lieutenant refused to talk about was his military service. However, John didn't insist. He saw the terrible scars on Simon's neck and face when he lifted the edge of his balaclava, perfectly understanding why he didn't want to talk about it.
One misty, cold morning before the pub opened, Simon and Johnny stood on the beach, smoking, watching the restless sea. Somewhere in the sky, seagulls circled, and their cries remained piercing and desperate, but they no longer held power over Simon Riley's soul. Johnny had just leaned against him, and Simon, in a familiar gesture, put his arm around his shoulders, shielding him from the gusts of cold wind that pierced to the bone, leaving a salty taste of the sea on their lips.
“Simon,” the retired lieutenant heard a quiet, bewildered voice and turned his head towards it, looking closely at Johnny, “We've met before, haven't we?”
Riley looked down, took a drag from his cigarette, and remained silent for almost a minute before replying:
“Yes.”
“I've thought so,” Johnny's voice held no anger or offense. “Ye knew what I liked for breakfast, what coffee I drink, which cigarettes I smoke. Ye knew I like my whiskey neat. Ye knew... a lo’ of things that I didn't notice right away.”
Simon fell silent, looking out to the sea once more. Johnny slowly rested his head on Simon's shoulder and felt his fingers rake through his mohawk, tousled by the wind. Raising his hand, MacTavish slowly touched the scar on his temple and spoke again.
“Was I military too?” He asked. “Did we serve together? Were we friends?”
Simon remained silent. The wind snatched the cigarette butt from his fingers, but he remained absolutely still, stare fixed straight ahead, and seemingly not even blinking. John lifted his head from Simon's shoulder, took a step forward to face him, and held his shoulders. His other hand rested on Simon's chest. Simon finally lowered his gaze, looking into MacTavish's eyes.
“Will ye be surprised if I tell ye I seem tae have fallen for you?” John said. “Tis madness ‘cause I've only known ye for a few weeks, but... I'm drawn to ye. From our very first meeting when ye walked into my pub. That's why I’ve invited ye over, not because I pure needed an assistant. Please, Simon, tell me something!”
“Let's go inside,” Simon finally spoke and very gently, carefully touched John's cheek with his fingers.
The pub should have opened by now, but at this hour there never were any customers, so MacTavish didn't change the sign “Closed” to “Open.” They sat at the bar facing each other, just as on that first night when Simon finally mustered the courage to enter. Johnny poured them a whiskey each, carefully and unsurely covering Simon's hand, laying on the counter, with his.
The retired lieutenant gulped down his drink and then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out two photographs. In one of them was Johnny in his uniform and gear, with a rifle in hand and his ever-present smile. It was his last photo taken before that fateful day when, as Simon thought, Johnny was killed. The second photo was a group shot, displaying all members of Task Force 141. Gaz and Soap were smiling, the captain looked stern, and Ghost, as always, was in the background wearing his skull mask. Johnny stared at these photos for a long, intense moment before looking back at Simon.
“I never stopped loving you, Johnny,” he said quietly. “I was with you when you were shot in the head. I held you and saw the life fade from your eyes. I don't know anything about how you survived, where you were treated, or what happened to you after that day. I remained in service only as long as it took to find your killer and seek revenge. Then, when I brought the captain the report of my discharge, he told me how to find you. He didn't give any specifics, and I came here not knowing what to expect.”
“Why didn't ye tell me this straight away?” Johnny asked, gently stroking Simon's arm.
“You were so happy, not remembering the past,” Riley replied in the same quiet tone, wrapping his wrist around Johnny's fingers. “I didn't have the courage to tell you about our service. About everything we had to go through. About how that scumbag shot you in the stomach and head while you were trying to protect our captain.”
“But that's not all that happened,” MacTavish shook his head and looked into Simon's eyes again. “There was us, not just comrades-in-arms or friends, right?”
“Yes,” nodded the retired lieutenant. “Not just that.”
Johnny lowered his gaze back to the photographs, trying to comprehend that the tough guy in the bulletproof vest covered in gear was himself; trying to recall the features of the other two fighters. That one in the hat with fancy sideburns was probably Captain Price. The name of the young and cheerful black guy in the cap was not mentioned by Simon, but they were probably friends with Johnny at some point. MacTavish frowned, trying to remember something, trying to find even the smallest breadcrumbs of memories that could lead him to the rest of them, but... In vain.
Doctors told him that with such brain damage, especially in the frontal lobe, memory loss was the least of all possible consequences. They said that MacTavish was lucky to remain functional and mentally stable. Memories might eventually return, but it was more likely that they wouldn't. Johnny accepted all of this. He had started a new life and believed he was completely happy until a mysterious stranger in a skull-print balaclava appeared on the threshold of his pub.
“I can't remember,” Johnny finally said, sadly looking at Simon. “Those people in the photo... We were probably close, bu’ I don't remember. All I can say is that even without remembering ye, I've fallen in love with ye again. And I don't want ye to sleep on the couch or go somewhere... I don't know, where your home is?”
“My home is where you are,” Simon replied, lifting Johnny's hand and lightly kissing his knuckles. “So if you still need an assistant...”
“Actually, I need more of a partner,” Johnny said, openly and warmly smiling at the man he didn't remember but loved with all his heart.
Simon spent several more weeks delving into the intricacies of managing the pub - learning how to plan and manage purchases, make cocktails, froth milk, cook simple dishes from the menu, work the till, and more. The pub closed on Mondays, and on those days, they would head out to the sea on Johnny's boat - they would fish or just circle around the island. Simon no longer slept on the couch or was a guest in MacTavish's house; he became its rightful owner. Johnny felt completely happy, falling asleep in his strong and warm embrace, resting his head comfortably on his chest.
Simon was happy too. It was evident how he gradually became less reserved, started to communicate more with the pub's customers, and increasingly more wore his balaclava raised to his nose. This allowed a glimpse that the retired lieutenant began to smile, doing so more and more often.
On a cold morning when the first snowfall covered the island with a white blanket, Simon and Johnny stood on the beach, smoking, watching the restless sea. Wrapped in a single blanket over their shoulders, they embraced each other, their lips displaying serene and happy smiles.
“I wanted to propose to you,” Simon broke the silence, stating this as casually as if it were something utterly inconsequential.
Johnny coughed, choking on cigarette smoke, and looked at him in astonishment.
“Yes, I wanted to,” Simon confirmed, continuing to gaze at the sea. “I even bought a ring for you, but... I never dared to. I thought we would have more time. When you, as I thought then, passed away, I left the ring on your grave. The cemetery worker who found it was probably happy; it was quite expensive.”
“Simon,” Johnny started, but Simon shook his head, turned to him, and, discarding the cigarette, covered his lips with his fingers.
“I can't afford to buy you the ring you deserve,” continued the retired lieutenant. “But maybe you'll agree to this?”
He pulled a ring from the inner pocket of his jacket—not golden or silver, but clearly antique, finely crafted. Johnny raised his hand, and Simon put the ring on his finger. He then kissed Johnny, lowering his head, and the piercing salty wind no longer had power over them because their hearts burned with a fire hotter than the epicentre of a nuclear explosion.
“I still couldn't remember anything,” Johnny said as they returned to the pub and prepared for opening. “You must be sad because of it.”
Simon looked at him, then pulled off his balaclava, smiled openly and sincerely, and replied:
“Quite the opposite.”