For the third night in a row, Tristan had come home the previous night close to dawn. Four hours. If he could just get four hours he'd be golden. Of course, like many nights, he found that his bed had not one unaccompanied. Arielle was fast asleep in his bed by the time he walked across the threshold of his bedroom. If it had been any other woman, this would've deterred him. However, seeing as she typically made herself at home whether he was here or not, he'd grown accustomed to seeing a crown of blonde hair resting on his pillow. It was for that reason that he remained clothed, taking nothing off but his shoes before retiring for the night. He remained above the covers, dissuading any false assumption that she'd been there for any other purpose other than sleeping. Clearly anyone could waltz into his room without him knowing so—to him—this was necessary. He couldn't be bothered with rumors or illusions of an intimate relationship. He simply didn't have the time.
After the departure of his interloping companion, the bedroom was quiet save for Tristan's soft breathing. He'd no intentions of waking up, regardless of his company and the fact that he'd exceeded his four hour minimum. Arielle's efforts had gone in vain, leaving him bound in his restful state. To any onlooker it would seem that he would go on sleeping for hours more, maybe several. However, a sudden uproarious sound of a guitar riff tore him through his reverie. Tristan rolled over onto his back begrudgingly, groaning as the phone levitated into his waiting palm. He didn't have to look at the caller ID to know who it was, the abrupt explosion of ACDC being a key contributor to his knowledge. It was merely a text, one that simply read:
Holmes. You up?
I am now.
He'd responded as quickly as he'd received it, sitting up with his iPhone in his hands. It'd been his partner, Agent Wyatt Jensen or otherwise known to Tristan as Wattsen. It was a play on pseudonym derived from a combination of his first and last name, ironically coincidental in consideration to the name Tristan himself had been given. Because of his deductive prowess, he'd earned the name Holmes from his best friend. Best friend. Tristan shook his head at the thought. He couldn't remember when he started calling the man that. Then again, when the man has taken more than one bullet for you it seemed almost indecent to refer to him as anything else.
We've got another one. When can you get here?
Give me twenty.
This response spurred him into action, hauling him off of the covers and into the bathroom attached to his room. His shower took him ten minutes and it took less than five to dress himself in his sharp suited work attire. He combed his hair, leaving it to fall haphazardly around his face and yet the style wasn't off putting. Grabbing the basic necessities and pocketing most of them, Tristan walked out into the hall, his attention on his phone. He glanced up briefly to acknowledge the people in the kitchen, "Morning Gavin". His eyes cut to the blonde sipping on a coffee mug, going unfazed by the fact that she was traipsing around in one of his shirts. "Arielle," He left the apartment with nothing more than that, striding to the elevator as he brought his phone to his ear, dialing up his partner.