Chapter Text
Having been born a first generation American to a Italian American family, raised in the American public school and foster care systems; a man with no family left to speak of seemed like he would fit in here, or so Price hoped. Joining the military right out of highschool, advancing more then anyone thought till his morals and his leadership didn't mix, discharging and joining the French foreign legion, and the waves he made after that, Marcus's file found his way onto the top of the pile for new recruits. He finished the course well, only a few seconds slower than Soap. At 6'3 and a touch under 230lbs, he moved remarkably quickly for his bulk. He also was the tallest member, a fact he had to point out to Ghost who only gave him a gruff grunt in acknowledgement but noticeably stood straighter when Marcus walked into the room. If the daggers shot from behind the baklava phased him, Marcus didn't show it. He carried himself like any American soldier he had seen, stiff and formal. Save that sass and promise of chaos in his eyes
~
Marcus hit the mat hard, his breath knocked from his lungs as the hulk of a man comes at him, fist already raised back. Marcus's foot connects to his knee, sending the giant forward at him. He rolls, making it to a knee before a fist clamps onto the back of his shirt and yanks him down with a garbled yelp. He tries to land on his back but is forced to his stomach, arm twisted painfully behind his back making him hiss.
"So much for close combat specialist." Ghost huffs, Marcus squirming under him hard enough trying to throw him that Ghost's legs have to straddle him to pin him to the floor. He can feel the man lean over him, all his weight on his back, forcing the air from his chest.
"Fat ass, I yeild." Marcus squeaks. A hand fists his hair and wrenches his head back.
"Disrespectful brat." He growls and releases him with a final shove into the floor.
As he stands, Marcus pulls himself off the floor.
"Been a long time since I've seen anyone bring you to the ground Lt." The scottish voice seems far to amused and Marcus grins looking to Ghost.
"Then you take him."
Marcus can't help but pout. "You need a nap? Grouchy old man-" he can't help but snicker, cut off by the man snatching him by the throat bring real panic into the man's icy blue eyes.
"You haven't been here long enough to make jabs at me boy." Ghost growls mere inches from his ear.
"Boys!" A voice runs clear and Ghost looks over but doesn't release the man.
"Don't kill each other. Save that for the field. Lieutenant." Price orders calm as ever and Ghost removes his hand with a glance cut to Marcus.
The Captian carries on. "I expect everyone in here for drills tomorrow, 0500 sharp. On their best behavior." Though he doesnt call them out, his eyes stare holes in Ghost and Marcus. Marcus dips his head just slightly.
"Yes sir."
The rest of the day is uneventful, he finishes unpacking the little he has into the small room. He still marvels at their little sanctuary, a practically private bunker with private rooms. A luxury he never had before in the military. It is still the military, so everything is sparse. The room contains the essentials, a small table, a small closet and a bed. His hand presses on it curious, surprised to see that it was softer then he had thought, and the sheets arent scratchy but rather smooth against his skin. He thanks whatever god responsible that everything isnt that green that still haunts his dreams, rather a softer greenish tan. Its the little things, he muses to himself. His own kit he lays out on his bed, some things will have to be altered or replaced but for the most part Price okayed him to continue with his own layout. The patches he pulls off, country and taskforce markers, personal ones. One personal thing he leaves, a picture folded and tucked into a pocket on his vest. He checks and doublechecks his pack and everything in it. Satisfied he packs it back away. By now it was nearly lights out, so with a glance out the door, he shuts it and lays down for the night.
By early morning he has memorized every speck on the ceiling above his bed. Accepting his fate he groans and gets up, deciding a shower was in order before drills. For all the privacy they have with their rooms, they still have a communal shower, though they do at least section it off with curtins. No escaping that. He sighs, setting his clean workout clothes aside he strips and turns the water on. The hot water over his body feels amazing, helping settle the stress and tension he has been hiding. His head rests on his forearms as he leans against the wall, letting his body relax under the water. His eyes close and its the closest to sleep hes gotten all night.
The sound of a dropped bag makes him jump and he spins to face it, seeing Ghost standing there, eyebrows clearly raised. He hadn't shut the divider, he figured no one else was up.
"Sorry, I- uh didn't realize anyone else would be up. Startled me is all."
"Donnae stress Gue- grr- Guerriero" Soap tries with a distressed huff when he can't quite form the name correctly. Marcus blinks and grabs for his watch now worried he was late.
"Ye not late. Ghost ere just woke me up when he got back from his run."
Marcus nods and relaxes a bit, then fixes soap with a look for a moment before letting it go. Who was he to judge after all.
"Oh, and its Guerrero, but you can just call me Marcus. Or Sergeant but that might be confusing. Or my DI called me Italy, my team used to call me Spite."
Soap grins. "Spite?"
Marcus laughs a little and thats when he sees Ghost's eyes gliding over his bare shoulders, and her gets a little self conscious as his hand raised to rub over the scars there.
"Uh, yeah. They said I was a spite filled bastard, that I did whatever my mind was set on." He mumbles, his look implies maybe that wasnt always a good thing. Soap seems lost till his follows his Lt's gaze and sees the scars. Ghost grunts with the force of the jab to his ribs and fixes Soap with a slow look.
"Oi, don't stare. You should know better."
Ghost looks back to Marcus. "Lose a fight with a cactus?" This time the jab was met with a shove that sent Soap skittering into a shower stall a few down.
Marcus laughs though. "No, no I didn't grow up in the south. No this, uh, this happened well, in the Middle East. My convoy was abushed and my sniper position eneded up compromised." His eyes stare at the floor a moment, his voice quiet. "I was held for a week."
Ghost's face is unreadable under the baklava. But he nods just once.
"Spite." He says, as if he agrees with the name. He pulls the divider shut as he leaves, leaving Marcus there to stare at the space beyond where he had been.
Then his face flushes as he belatedly covers himself with his hand. Welp. That was, confusing.