Time to take a ✨oneshot✨

😏😏stockholm syndrome

A/N: worked on this w linsgreysweater

The bar was a bit sketchy to say the least. He didn't know why he chose it in the first place. The sign above the door was hanging by a thread, "WREN'S" all in cursive neon letters across it. The "R" was the only letter able to stay lit, as the others blinked periodically, a spark flying every now and then.

The ground around the doorstep was muddy, puddles everywhere.

Whatever. He just needed a drink.

When Jonathan pushed the door open, it made a loud creaking sound, paired with that of a small bell near the hinge.

The bar was dim and empty, aside from one bartender wiping down a counter, humming to himself. A tune Jon couldn't quite catch but wouldn't stop ringing in his ear. Above that, a soft melody played on a jukebox in the corner.

The man looked up at the sound of Jon's shoes squeaking with each step he took on the slick flooring. He smiled warmly, moving behind the counter as Jonathan took a seat at one of the stools.

"What can I get you sir?"

"Any beer on tap will work," he sighed, resting an elbow on the counter.

"Long day?" Actually looking up to get a glimpse of the man, Jon took notice of his countless freckles and shimmering hazel eyes in the low lighting and grinned, exhausted.

"You have no idea," he chuckled dryly, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Squinting his eyes, Ramos noticed something in his far off gaze. Something cold, something broken.

"I'll have that right out for you," turning around, he grabbed the mixers, leaning over the back counter to send a text. A text to a pair of unseen eyes that'd been lurking in the shadows.

Ramos : this one?

He sighed, exasperated watching the text go from delivered to read and staying that way.

For god-sake, the man was making him wait. It was one of his little games he loved to play. And no one messed with that. Everything had to be on his terms and his terms only.

"You good, man?" Jonathan had to ask. He'd been hunched over, twiddling his thumbs.

"What?" he turned around, "Yes, yeah I'm good , just gotta deal with something real quick."

Ramos : damn you Miranda

He knew full well the man was in the back somewhere, laughing his ass off. Why couldn't the little bitch do it himself?

"Because that's how it works around here," he'd told him in a solemnly cold tone, "Now you have two options. Be part of the team, a good sport or," he could hear the menacing smirk in his tone. "Be a victim," he murmured as he cocked the gun. He unloaded it, letting the bullets slide out of his palm, onto the ground. And he walked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door.

Ramos shivered at the memory. Just as he began to recollect, he felt that distinct ding.

Miranda : do it.

He sighed in relief, grabbing and wiping a glass, setting it under the beer tap to fill it up. With his body covering the act, he slipped in a clear powder, watching it dissolve.

"Here you are," he spun around, sliding the drink across the counter into his waiting hand. Jonathan slapped some cash down, bringing the chilled glass to his lips. Ramos watched him take a nice long sip as he stared absentmindedly out the window.