LAMS! Hamilton/Laurens One Shots

A. Hamilton: the Bartender of London Street (2/3) [E]

Second of 3 installments, in which Laurens is a Sweeney Todd kinda guy. 

CW for violence, sex, language
TW: gore, mentions of assault

word count: 13,340

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Laurens had not killed for five days. They were running low on meat, but he did not feel like taking patients. He'd purchase some chicken, maybe modify the menu for a while. What was the point to it - the killings? First, a stand against Francis fucking shameful sodomite Kinloch, and then it was because the next man who came in was manic and alone and Laurens assessed that he was stupid, unsuccessful, lazy, self-deprecating and self-pitying and rude - and plump and better as food than a waste of oxygen with a fixation to his opium pipe. There was also a person who swore they recognized him, insisting they knew he was the same doctor who had been banished for sodomy fifteen years prior, so when they continued to assert this and went on about how they were to tell their brother all about it, Laurens offed them. Then the next people, Laurens swore he had good reason, that these people were just the worst, didn't deserve life, but he could not remember why or which one had done, said, or been afflicted with what.

He helped people, mostly, but began turning them away under the guise of feeling unwell himself. He didn't feel well. He was sick with jealousy and sadness.

He had not spoken to his partner in the bar downstairs for these five days-not since he walked off. Hamilton seemed too hurt to wish to speak. Laurens also noticed Hamilton turned away personal patrons, however kept the bar up and running in the afternoon and evening into late in the night. Perhaps Hamilton was still taking patrons, just not when Laurens may notice.

There was only one inquirer Laurens did not turn away, this on the fifth day of the standoff between he and Hamilton. At the door of his practice was his young brother, at first smiling, but his lips faltering to a frown when he opened the door to see John Laurens was not quite so elated.

"James, whatever are you doing here?" asked Laurens. Behind him on a table was a bloodied cloth, though the scene was clean--as he'd both cleaned and hadn't raised a scalpel of late.

"Am I to be surprised, that you are at your own practice? On the street we departed from, last we met?"

"I suppose not."

"I came to visit with you, dear Jack."

"I see." He swallowed. "Come downstairs then, I'll pour us some drinks."

Laurens led his younger brother down into the pub.

"You run this bar, too?" asked James, fascinated.

"Yes, we do."

James noticed Hamilton behind the counter. He was slumped against it, a bottle in his left hand and a pen in the other, appearing to have perhaps dozed off while writing or working or drinking with the façade of working.

"Hamilton," said Laurens begrudgingly. "Hamilton. Wake up." He snapped a couple of times.

Hamilton raised his head and wiped at his dreary face. He set down the bottle. He looked to James with a confused countenance.

"This is my brother, James. He's come for a drink."

Hamilton nodded and reached for a couple of glasses behind him.

"James, this is Hamilton. We run this establishment."

Hamilton laughed-he sounded delirious. "And what a fiiiine establishment it is, yes, Laurens?"

"Yes..." Laurens said slowly. He swiped a bottle and poured a couple of drinks for he and his brother at the bar. Hamilton was farther down the bar, sat upon a stool, apparently having been drinking and slacking off. Laurens didn't know this. He didn't care enough to check.