Chapter Text
Simon had been retired from the military for almost a decade now. Moved to just outside of Leeds for a fresh start. It was almost a decade because he was almost 45, having been medically discharged at 35 after one too many close-calls on the field left him with a tremble in his hands that rendered him unable to hold a gun steady, amongst other aches and pains. It was an anniversary that was hard to forget, and for the past nine years, Ghost had gotten pissed on that same day every year. Not often did he turn to the booze, but there wasn’t much else he could do about it. He tried not to let it get to him, but it was a vicious cycle; feeling sorry for himself for being retired, drinking, and then feeling shit about drinking. Sometimes it reminded him too much of his father. At least it wasn’t every fuckin’ day.
He was able to get himself a nice house at the end of a lane in Adel with a double garage for his sleek black McLaren P1 and classic red 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Z/28, all of which he bought with the sizeable government payout for veterans. The Camaro was sort of a prized possession of his, something he spent most of his days tinkering with and cleaning. The car was a fixer-upper, having been off the road for at least two decades before he bought it. But it was gorgeous, and it gave him a purpose in life that was hard to come by, post military.
As far as being an integrated and accepted part of society post-retirement went, Ghost was the opposite. He hardly ever spoke to his neighbours, let alone even had the chance to with how little he went out during the day. He was vaguely aware that most of them were elderly, though that was a given, since the neighbourhood was somewhat fancy to put it simply. Of course, he still felt the need to have security cameras up on every plane of the exterior of his house. Paranoia never truly let him rest, always at the back of his mind saying ‘what if’.
One day, Ghost’s next door neighbour —of whom, for the life of him, he could not name— came to his door to tell him she was moving to a retirement villa and to take care of himself. She was a sweet old lady, it seemed, and it almost made him sad to see her leaving. From that day on, her house sat empty with a ‘for sale’ sign stuck in the front garden. A couple of weeks later, he noticed moving vans parked outside of the house, and what seemed to be a family’s belongings being moved in. Within a handful of days, the family appeared to be fully moved in, and that was that. Until one night, whilst Ghost was sitting in his study, nursing a bourbon and reading a book, a bout of shouting came from the house next door. The sound of a loud motorbike starting up made Ghost want to look at what the fuss was about.
Moving to the window, he saw a young man hopping onto what looked like some model of Kawasaki Ninja, a backpack slung onto his back. The front door of the house was open, light streaming out and outlining a man in the doorway, presumably the boy’s father.
“Ye cannae tell me what tae do wi’ ma life!” The boy yelled, a thick Scottish accent colouring his words. “None o’ ye fuckin’ business what I’m doin’ wi’ it, ya fuckin’ bawbag!” He continued, kicking the kickstand before revving the bike and speeding away from the house. He must’ve seen Ghost standing in the window, because as the kid drove past, he lifted a hand to flip him off for watching. Great. His quiet retirement was now compromised by some rebellious kid and his flashy sports bike. And he was a fucking Scot. Ghost watched the boy speed down the road, rolling his eyes as he realised the kid had a fucking mohawk. There was no way he could be any more cliche.
—
Ghost watched as the next morning the kid pulled up to the house and parked his motorbike, before standing on the deck with a cigarette between his lips, taking hasty drags and holding them in for too long. Ghost had his morning cup of tea in his hands, sitting at the kitchen bench and looking out the window. Ghost glanced at the house every now and then, watching the young man alternate between running a hand through the hair of his mohawk and taking a deep puff of his cigarette. It was evident that he was under some sort of stress. Probably some sort of school or girl troubles, or something to do with what he saw the previous night, if he had to guess. Not that he was actively thinking about some kid's life struggles. But it was hard not to fixate a little. After all, his almost 10 year streak of undisturbed living was now being very much disturbed.
The boy looked to be no older than maybe 23, definitely uni age, but he still had that aura of teenage rebellion. His dark brown hair was usually styled up into a mohawk, but was now ruffled from him running a hand through it, and his outfits commonly consisted of a band shirt, skinny-jeans, jacket, and a lot of chains and spikes. Clearly aiming for a certain aesthetic there. Ghost sort of got the appeal, spikes and dark clothes. An obvious deviation from society’s expectations. He was just never as outspoken when he was that age. Didn’t get much of a chance as a kid, not with his bastard of a father striking him for practically everything, and then joining the military so early meant still no chance, since the whole point was to be part of the machine. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t dressed similarly as a teen, and his whole skull mask thing in the army was similarly eccentric.
About eight minutes later, a red mk3 Ford Escort pulled into the driveway of the Scots' house, a pretty, dark skinned boy in the driver’s seat with his free arm resting on the open window. He gave an exaggerated wolfwhistle to the boy on the deck, making him throw his head back with a laugh. Ghost heard an affectionate “Awa’ an bile yer heid!” before he hopped down from the steps and leaned in the window to kiss the other. In all honesty, Ghost could’ve looked away then, it weren’t any of his business, but he did anyway. The kiss turned from a kiss to more of a snog, a little too long to be considered a casual friendly smooch, and almost bordering on a short make-out. Definitely not girl troubles then. Unless that’s what the youth were doing nowadays with their friends. The boys separated and the Scot walked around the car and jumped into the passenger seat. Ghost could see them chatting for a second before the car was reversed and driven away from the house, the purr of the engine fading quickly into the distance.