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New Worlds - Havana	By : danglingdingle Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Slash - Male/Male > Jack/Will Views: 1459 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The characters are sole property of Disney Corp. No money or other profit is made by using them here. I don't own PotC.

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“Jack? Who are these women we are supposed to be meeting?”

Will had to raise his voice for his overly-innocent question to be heard over the running water in the bathroom, where Jack was cheerfully adjusting the temperature, singing snatches of the latest popular songs.

Rubbing water off his eyes, Jack poked his head out from behind the shower curtain, shiny droplets on his beard and mustache reflecting the light, giving him the appearance of having bathed in diamonds. “Friends of Flavio’s.” Reaching to draw Will into the shower with him, Jack added, “Well, he is more friendlier with Marta… He proposed us to entertain the ladies on this fine evening.”

The curtain closed behind Will, and Jack, dropping the subject, resumed singing in an off-key, teasing baritone, while maneuvering Will under the running water, “Hey! Jealous lover - I’m telling you true, I know that you’re jealous - But there's no one but you.”

“I am not jealous,” Will insisted, withdrawing his head from the shower, eyes closed, a smile betraying his words. ”I’d only like to know what sort of trouble you’re getting me into, for once.”

Chuckling, Jack wrapped his arms around Will and continued to croon in his ear, ignoring his protests. “Could have cheated lots of times,” Jack paused to press his lips to Will’s neck, tasting their mingled sweat before it was rinsed away, and, reciting rather than singing, kissed his way along Will’s jaw, “but just couldn’t do, I was much too busy baby - being faithful to you…”

Gently capturing Will’s lips with his own, Jack steered them both under the shower, smiling when Will smiled into the kiss, relishing both the heat from the water and his lover’s body, deliciously pressed to his.

Gliding his hands over Jack‘s back, Will broke from the lip-lock long enough to murmur, “Is that so?” before losing himself to the sensation of hot water and even hotter lips.

Departing with a sigh, Jack pushed the shower handle aside and took the soap. “You tell me, catkin,” he replied with a wink, and began to make lazy circles on Will’s chest.

Lathering the soap, Jack did not fail to note the curve of Will’s throat as he bent his head to wet his hair thoroughly while Jack ran languid hands along Will’s ribs.

After the wordless exchange of Will handing out his palm, Jack pouring shampoo on it, and replacing the bottle, Jack did not pass the opportunity to stroke his palms to Will’s sides firmly, up to his arm pits and onto his arms, while watching keenly, nigh hypnotized, as the man washed his hair.

Each passing second of the utterly insignificant act of normalcy was etched into Jack’s memory, saved, treasured, worshipped, so that they could be summoned back, clung to, remembered - these divine moments, these blessed fleeting bits of time, when Jack was merely Jack, with Will who was only Will.

It helped to keep whatever sanity was left in the immortal when he was left to continue to defy the laws of nature alone.

Will emerged from under the stream of water and asked once more, conveniently halting the melancholic trail Jack’s thoughts had taken, and whisking him back into the present; “Well? Are you going to explain what I getting into this evening?”

Jack could not help but grin widely at Will’s choice of words. He winked and began to croon another popular tune.

Two Gardenias for you

With them I'd like to say

I want you, I love you, my life

Give them all of your attention

As they are your heart and mine.**

“Jack!” Will laughed, and grabbing the soap, turned Jack around so he could wash his back. “You are avoiding my question, and you know it.” He soaped his hands and began to massage Jack’s back, as Jack stretched like a cat, pressing his hands to the tiled wall of the stall and wriggled his butt invitingly.

“And stop trying to change the subject.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort.” Jack peeked under his arm at Will, a devilish grin on his face. “In fact, I would say you are doing a fine job of it yourself.” He gestured with his chin towards Will’s rock hard cock. Swaying his buttocks provocatively, he added, “Well? You started it…”

Will ducked his head out of the shower and looking around, smiled as he grabbed the bottle of bath oil he’d seen earlier from the shelf above the sink. Uncapping it, he wrinkled his nose as the steamy air was filled with the heavy scent of gardenias.What else? He began to slowly coat his cock, running his other hand down Jack’s back and pressing his oil-slick fingers against the beckoning opening, maneuvering their way inside as Jack sighed and pushed backwards.

Two gardenias for you

which will hold all of the warmth of a kiss

of those kisses that I gave you

and that you will never find

in the warmth of another love

The rest of the song was lost in a delighted gasp as Will happily finished what he’d started.

****

Freshly bathed, in matching crisp white linen suits, their still damp hair slicked back beneath their Panama hats, the two men descended from their heavenly solitude, reluctantly emerging from the elevators into the bustling activity of the crowded hotel lobby. They wove their way through a colorful array of smartly dressed men and bejeweled women, rich American tourists looking for a night of tropical romance and exotic adventure. The bar was doing a lively business, with white-coated waiters moving to and fro, carrying trays of mojitos and daiquiris – those sinfully sweet rum drinks the Yankee tourists loved so much.

“Do you see them?” Will asked, craning his neck to see across the crowded room.

“No. Perhaps they are still in the casino.” Jack steered Will towards the end of the loggia, where the newly opened Casino International was located. A moderate sized casino, it offered seven roulette, three blackjack tables, and one crap game, along with 21 slot machines ringing the room, ranging from five cents to a dollar a play. Chips cost as little as a quarter in this palatial gold-and-marble room with its glittering chandeliers. A posh addition to an already plush hotel, it had something for everyone – from a Toledo clerk on a package tour to a millionaire on holiday.

The girls were at one of the roulette tables, languorous beauties, with dark hair and eyes and full, curvaceous bodies, and apparently good fortune, judging from the stack of chips in front of them. One of the women, caught sight of them as they made their way across the room and enthusiastically waved her arm, on which at least a half dozen gold bangles jingled. Her friend looked up and smiled in recognition. To Will’s surprise, it was the bar-girl, Mercedes, who’d taught him to rumba.

“Señor Sparrow!” The first woman called. “See what luck we have had!” She gestured to the stacks of chips in front of her.

Jack smiled and pardoned his way through the people crowded around the table and, nodding politely to the croupier, swept the stack of chips deftly into the pocket of his jacket. Taking the woman’s elbow he bowed slightly to the rest of the players and said brightly, “My lovely Marta, as much as I do not wish to interrupt your incredibly good fortune with the wheel, I believe we have a dinner engagement waiting, aye?”

Turning to Will he added, “You remember Mercedes? Perhaps you will buy her a drink while I take Marta to cash out her chips. We won’t be but a minute.”

Giggling, Marta allowed herself to be led away from the table, waiting until they were out of earshot of the others to whisper quickly. “Flavio cannot meet us later. Something has come up.”

Nodding at a passing couple, Jack guided Marta towards the cashier’s window. “Did he mention where they are meeting?” Jack asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“No, he said it would be too dangerous.” Marta’s eyes filled with tears as she placed a hand on Jack’s arm. “I am so worried, what if they…”

Jack hushed her with a quick finger to her lips. “Shhh, not here. You just struck it rich, you should be smiling.” He smiled encouragingly and added with a wink, “Flavio will be proud to hear you were able to win such a sum of Yankee Imperialist money.”

Marta managed a smile as she squeezed Jack’s arm. “He will be pleased, yes.”

****

While Jack and Marta were cashing out her winnings, Will was gallantly trying to entertain Mercedes. Unfortunately, the young woman only knew a rudimentary amount of English, and Will’s Spanish was quite rusty.

“You come here often?” Will asked, kicking himself immediately for asking, not wanting to imply she was a working girl.

Mercedes giggled, and shook her head. “No, I cannot, how you say? Too many dollars?”

“Afford it?” Will offered, getting an eager nod in return.

A smartly dressed waiter paused beside their table, and gave them a quizzical look. Will smiled and ordered a round of drinks for the group.

“The local habaneros do not visit the Hotel Nacional.” Mercedes waved her hand at the crowded room.  They work here.”

Will glanced around at the crowd, noting what she said was true. The room was full of what appeared to be mostly American tourists, while all the hotel employees – waiters, busboys, porters, even the bartenders, were locals.

Jack and Marta joined them in time to overhear Mercedes’ last remark.

“Too often, I am afraid, Americans get the idea that Cubans in Havana spend their time going to night clubs.” Marta said. “Actually, Cubans are much like people everywhere; most of them go home and go to bed at night.”

She paused as the waiter set their drinks down, and then shrugged and added, philosophically, “But since American tourists are insatiably addicted to night clubs, there are some Cubans who are both polite and wise, and stay up to keep the places open.” She laughed. “The tourists are just good business.”

Will glanced quickly at Jack, who grimaced at the familiar phrase. “Just good business, eh?” he said, giving Will a pointed look back.  “Better hope it won't get swallowed under the waves of greed, then.”

“It is Batista and his corrupt officers and the Yankee Imperialists like Lansky who are guilty of greed. The Cuban people are only trying to survive.” Marta said passionately though in a low voice so as not to be overheard. “These rich, greedy Americans, they see Havana as nothing more than a casino and brothel for American businessmen over for a big weekend from Miami.  I have seen them, with my own eyes, drunk, reeling through the streets, picking up girls, not more than fourteen years of age and tossing coins in the streets to make men scramble in the gutter.”

“And yet you were willing to come here, even when Flavio was not,” Jack pointed out.

Marta shrugged and pouted. “I am not a man, I must use what weapons I have in order to survive. He told me you were not like all the others, that you understood the just cause he fights for.”

“So he sent you to assure that I continue understanding?" The sharp edge in Jack's voice made Will frown in confusion, and Marta look away briefly, as if caught with her hand in Jack's pocket, while he continued in measured tones,  "Or is it, perchance, my friend Captain Turner here, that he wishes to recruit?” Shaking his head slowly, disappointed, Jack grabbed his drink, took a deep gulp, and after returning the glass to the table, casually stretched his arm to the back of Will's seat, the stern look in his eyes speaking louder than the unuttered ‘not a chance, darling,’ had been, if voiced.

Any further discussion was cut short as their waiter returned and announced their table was ready in the dining room. Claudio, the maitre‘d frowned as they presented themselves and pulled Jack to one side.

“The Café-Parisienne is strictly off limits to their type,” he said quietly, gesturing towards the two women.

“And what exactly is their type?” Jack asked, returning to the group and placing a possessive hand on Marta’s arm. “I did not realize there was a separate standard for casino and restaurant.” Jack raised his voice slightly. “Let me get this straight. It is perfectly acceptable for their “type” to spend their money on roulette, but not spend my money to dine?”

“No no, Captain Sparrow. It is not that.” The maitre’d hurried to reassure them.

Jack wrapped an arm around Marta’s shoulders. “Then what is it, pray tell? Are you afraid of the local habaneros?” He laughed and slipped the man a $20 bill. “We are only here to dine, my dear Claudio. Not start a revolution!”

“Of course.” Claudio pocketed the tip and bowing slightly, said with a smile, “Right this way, gentlemen. Ladies.”

He led the way through the crowded room, resplendent with cream-and-blue satin lined walls, and crisp white linen-covered tables, where waiters came and went as swiftly as swallows. The clink of glasses and silverware tinkled beneath the swelling sound of the orchestra, playing a soothing wave of rumba and son.

“May I suggest the paella de marisco, paired with a chilled Rías Baixas Albariño,” Claudio said, once they were seated, handing them each a menu. “And for dessert, a nice flan, and coffee.”

“Excellent!” Jack said, signaling a waiter over to order another round of drinks.

Will waited until they were alone, then leaned towards Jack. “Would you mind telling me what is going on?” he hissed, impatiently.

“Nothing,” Jack said, brightly. “Nothing at all. We are simply enjoying a meal and a show, at our gracious host’s expense.”

“What was that all about, with the maitre’d, then?”

“Oh! That.” Jack waved Will’s concerns away with a flutter. “A simple mistake, that is all.”

“He did not want to serve us,” Marta said. “The locals are not welcome unless they are scrubbing the floors or the toilets.” She laughed, bitterly. “Your one night at theNacional costs more than what your room’s maid makes in three months, working twelve hours a day, six days a week. And hers is one of the highest-paid jobs a woman can get in Havana. Unless she sells herself.”

Will glanced over at Mercedes, her eyes wide with excitement at being in such a fancy place. He recalled the smoky, crowded bar where she’d taught him to rumba, and offered him more, if he desired. Jack had told him about her afterwards, how she came from a poor farm family, how her parents, in order to feed the other children, had sent her to the city to earn a living, knowing in their hearts what type of living it would be. How she hoped to earn enough to save for a trousseau, so she might be married one day.

Jack had given her a month’s wages that night, for the pleasure of watching Will dance. A gesture typical of Jack, who understood that pride was the one thing the Cuban people had left, despite their struggles. Pride, and the relentless will to survive.

“Cubans love Havana,” Marta was telling Jack. “And Havana gives it back. It is noble and beautiful and has the heart, and soul and indomitable spirit of a great city. But Havana has once again been hijacked,” she added bitterly. “It has become a city where luxury and fun is reserved for the rich and the foreigners. We have become a nation of servants who sing and dance at table for them.”

“But is revolution the answer?” Jack asked. “Cuba has a long history of going from one bad leader to another.”

“Perhaps this time will be different. No hay mal que dure cien años ni cuerpo que lo resista.”

“What is that?” Will asked, curious.

“An old Cuban proverb.” Marta smiled sadly. “No evil lasts a hundred years, for no one exists who could live through it.”

Will, who had just taken a sip of his drink, began to cough violently. Jack hid his own bafflement in a swift attempt to save his friend from choking, giving them both sufficient time to think of a reply. Finally, Will emerged from his ordeal and managed to breathlessly ask, “But what about your children?”

Jack nodded, as he continued to rub Will’s back in a soothing fashion. “Aye. They are the ones left to deal with the consequences.”

****

The conversation was cut short as their dinner arrived with a flourish. There were two waiters to serve them, as the freshly cooked paella was not merely set on the table, but first displayed for the diners to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ and applaud its beauty. Classically presented, large prawns, heads and tails intact, were arranged in a spoke pattern on the top with their feelers carefully extended to meet in the center of the dish, along with an array of mussels, scallops and crab claws. Completing the design were several baby octopi in the center of the pan. Carefully cut pieces of roasted and peeled red pimento and lemon wedges were arranged artistically to complete the presentation.

As the first waiter set the pan of paella in the center of the table, the other presented the bottle of wine to Jack for approval. As if on cue, as the final glass of wine was poured, the lights dimmed and the orchestra swelled to announce the start of the evening’s show. The headliner was a famous bolero singer, who balanced out the romantic ballads with a series of guarachas, rumbas, sones and other high energy numbers.

Marta waved a hand at the singer and said in a disapproving voice, “The hypocrisy of this place! They allow a black man to entertain the rich, white tourists, yet won’t let him drink in their bars or sleep in their beds. Even the famous Nat King Cole could not get a room at the Nacional, when he was here last year.”

She glared at the table next to theirs, where an American couple was sitting, a typical mid-Western couple from Kansas City or Chicago or Cleveland, looking for some fun in the sun and a taste of the exotic, something to talk about for months to come – until they could save up enough money and vacation time to return toHavana.

“All these white American tourists don’t just bring their dollars to Cuba, but their bigotry as well,” Marta said, sitting back with a flounce, the rum drinks loosening her tongue considerably. “The Plaza Hotel, it is advertising for ‘two white waiters speaking English.’ The Hotel Presidente asks for ‘two white waiters and room boys.’ Look around you! This, the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, owned by the Cuban government, yet who does it cater to? Who is allowed to dine here? To gamble here? Not your local habaneros, no. He must go elsewhere, he might be too black for the very important American tourists.”

“Marta, please?” Mercedes asked plaintively. “We are here for fun. You should be happy, look at this!” She gestured to the steaming pan of paella, sitting neglected in the middle of the table.

“We could feed a village on what that cost,” Marta said with a dismissive snort.

“Let’s dance,” Jack said abruptly, much too cheerfully to be nothing but a veiled threat, pulling Marta towards the dance floor. Once they were there he pulled her close and said in a sharp whisper, “You are not helping us, or Flavio, or “the cause” by calling attention to yourself. Now, do yourself a favour, and try to pretend you are here to have fun, and not to start a revolution, savvy?”

Marta glared at him. “I cannot help but feel passionate for my people, for my country. You would rather I pretend that nothing is the matter?”

Jack tightened his hold, just to discreetly underline the meaning of his words, and snarled, eyes narrowed, “Yes, dearie, I would rather you pretend you are a lady, and I know this is difficult for you, but, please, do me a favour; at least try and act like one.”

“Why you…” Marta did not manage to sputter out her response, as it was drowned out by the orchestra who launched into a rousing cha cha cha. They were soon joined on the dance floor by other couples, including Will and Mercedes.

“You like the dance?” Mercedes asked Jack, laughing as they soon were swept into a conga line that snaked around the dance floor.

Jack, who was grinning like a fool, the threat that Marta posed forgotten the second he spotted Will attempting his first conga, and was captured by the sight, barely stifling his own laughter as Will seriously counted out the steps and kicked.

“Haven’t had this much fun in years,” he told her, truthfully.

****

“Have you heard the tale of Davy Jones? A man of the sea, a great sailor.”

Jack was entertaining the women, who had finally settled down to eat the delicious paella. He picked up one of the baby octopi with two fingers and waggled it under his chin.

Mercedes giggled, Marta frowned. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Jack sighed, and popped the morsel into his mouth. “Not much,” he mumbled, shifting the food into his cheek and leaning forth with a dare colouring his eyes. “Unless you insist on talking about the consequences of actions.” Jack gave a quick look at Will, who was poking the octopus around his plate while frowning at it in an attempt to stop himself from grinning at Jack’s antics, and trying to concentrate on the table-talk.

Jack returned his gaze to Marta, who, for the first time since meeting Jack, found herself in trepidation of the eyes which seemed to see through anything…or anyone. She nearly jumped when Jack spoke again, “You need to be careful you do not rip out the heart of your country along with its leader.”

“Batista does not care for Cuba. He exploits the country and its people for his own gain,” Marta stood her ground, albeit in a more quiet voice.

“Sometimes a known evil is preferable to an unknown.” Jack pointed out, once again playing with his food. “Evil wears many masks, including beards…or tentacles.”

“Los barbudos seek justice for the Cuban people.” Marta insisted, only slightly fettered by the look Jack, and now, also Will, gave her.

“I have no doubt they do,” Jack said, seriously, suddenly sounding exhausted. “But history has an ugly way of repeating itself. One can only hope that your liberators do not soon become your oppressors.

****

A/N:  **Dos Gardenias

This classic bolero is the pianist and arranger Isolina Carrilo's best known composition.  Born in 1907 she wrote the song in the 1930's and it has since become an essential part of every bolero singer's repertoire.

The great Cuban singer and bandleader, Antonio Macháo, scored a huge success with the song in Spain in the 1940's.  Macháo died in Seville in 1995 and Compay Segundo played the song at his funeral before sprinkling rum on his resting place as a tribute.  The Buena Vista Social Club recording features an intimate performance from Ibrahim Ferrer.
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New Worlds - Havana