Mace enjoyed barging into your room, toying with your belongings and messing with you mainly.

He didn't really care for what state you were in. He'd give you kisses first thing in the morning before you had the chance to brush your teeth. He'd pick you up like a rag doll when your clothes were dirtied up, not caring about how dirty you were. He didn't care, nothing stopped him.

Nothing.

You laid in bed. Your head throbbing, body covered in sweat, and a bucket of vomit beside your bed. You didn't know what was wrong, you just knew you were dead. Not literally, but it felt like it, and looked like it.

You did not inform Mace of thud because he was busy with work and didn't need to bother him with useless information. When he made it to the base, he was tired, covered in sweat and dirt, and a little irritated.

He went to the shared room, the moment that door opened, you immediately told him to get out.

"I'm not in the mood to be told what to do so you can knock that shit-" he takes a pause. That putrid stench of vomit in the air. He now understood why you wanted him out.

"I'm not getting out. I'm grabbing cold washcloths, Gatorade, and getting you out of those clothes." Mace comes up to the bed and kisses his index and middle finger, pressing the fingers to your forehead. He was a soldier, he's seen worse conditions. He knows how to take care of people.