Almost two weeks. Two God damn weeks. It was maddening enough when they were only waiting days between missions. Regardless, Tristan always found something to do with his time and that had become even more true as of late. Loss, pain, death, failure. They meant he wasn't good enough. After Idaho and after every mission in the months following he found that there was always something about his performance that could be better. He could always have been more steady, more accurate, more watchful, more focused, more decisive, faster, stronger. 

Sweat began to drip into his eyes as he delivered a rapid succession of blows to the heavy punching bag that hung from the ceiling. Every combo he had learned in training needed to be perfected. Every strike needed to go exactly where he wanted it. Each one had to be harder than the last. It had been the same with basic drills and on the shooting range. Every time he pulled the trigger it needed to be a bulls-eye. No matter what the distance, the direction, or the speed of the target. No matter how terrible the wind or snow. No matter how tired he was. Until that happened he would never be satisfied with anything. Sand started to leak from the bag and dust flew into the air with every vicious blow. Tiny rips started to form in the tape where it had been patched a thousand times over. His knuckles were starting to leave blood behind and his muscles were burning. Punch. Upper-cut. Elbow. No. More. Failures. He threw the last one so hard the chains that held the punching bag screeched against the steel beam they wrapped around as their load swung dangerously. A gap-toothed grin formed on his face... Until he saw the sand absolutely pouring from the rip he had made in the side of the bag.

"Woops..." He looked around to make sure nobody had seen that before haphazardly sticking yet another piece of tape over the damage. That was plenty of practice for today.

After hitting the showers his stomach growled and he suddenly felt weak. [i]Uhg. I could eat a brahmin.[/i] Without wasting anytime he got dressed, threw on a tattered old bomber jacket and sprinted into the raging blizzard. The pain of such cold hit him immediately. [i]Fuck. Okay. Do it for the food.[/i] He would never understand how anybody could ever get used to this. Tristan scrambled into the lodge and slammed the door behind him to keep any of the snow or wind from getting inside. On his way to the buffet he tried to brush most of the snow out of his hair which was still somewhat wet from the shower and was now somewhat frozen. Stupid cold. Stupid snow. Stupid blizzard. The irritated grumbling stopped almost immediately as the intoxicating smells of alcohol and food washed over him. After grabbing a tray he went to work trying to decide what to eat. Might be a good idea to get a little of everything... Just to be safe.

It only took a few quick glances around the cafeteria to figure out exactly where he was going next.

"Hey!" Tristan smiled and gave a quick nod to Andrew, "Devon! What's up?" he slapped the man's shoulder firmly as he walked by then sat down to join them with an overflowing tray of food and a glass of scotch. He didn't wait for responses before shoving the first bite of steak into his mouth.