Fighting James Norrington is not like fighting Will Turner. It's nothing like it. Jack remembers Will, remembers the near painful innocence of the lad beneath all that sharp and deadly skill, remembers just how damned easy it was to trick the poor bastard. He remembers the almost appalled look on Will's face. "You cheated!" Sheer horror at the mere thought that a pirate might cheat, that any swordsman might cheat. Jack has to snicker, just a bit. Thank heavens the whelp has grown up some since then.

No. Fighting James is an altogether different proposition. Oh, same skill. Maybe even better, and seems that makes sense, given who was probably teaching the whelp in the first place. But this skill is old. It's jaded. It's seen every dirty trick you care to name, and then some. Commodore James bloody Norrington, pirate hunter of the Caribbean and who knows where else besides, he's been on the receiving end of some right nasty saws, if those sneaky suspicious eyes are anything to go by, if that wary footwork and consciousness of his surroundings has anything to say on the matter. And it does. Oh, how it does.

The man doesn't even bother with banter, not now, not down to bare blades and the ring of steel. Not like Will, again. No need to explain, to justify, to argue. No need for anything except the purpose of a sword, and the will of the man behind it. And maybe, just here and there, a little smirk of triumph, when he thinks he's done something especially clever or pretty. Jack adores that little smirk. He really does. He's almost tempted to make a mistake, just to see it, but the danger's too real for that. So very real. Oh, but something's got the Commodore hot and bothered, right enough.

The smithy's not his ground, even now, even being all friendly like with Will and his bride-to-be. Not his ground, but not the Commordore's either. Well, it'd be awkward, wouldn't it? The jilted suitor takin' tea with the ex-fiance and her new beau. Actually, come to think of it, might be why the man's so hot under the collar. No lovebirds in range, o' course, but even bein' here had to be upsettin'.

The Commodore hounds him back past the wheel-pit, careful of the cart and the donkey and even the bleedin' swords Will's always leaving lyin' around the place. Too careful by far, and Jack's beginning to find it annoying, how few openings the man's givin' him. Just the bloody blade, wherever he turns, and while the smirk is damned pretty every time he lets out a huff of exasperation, it's gettin' tiring. And this one is a dirty trick, it's a very dirty trick, not at all fair, bringin' a gun to a sword fight, but Jack's about out of patience. He masks the draw with the turn of his body as he parries a lunge, and buries the sound of him cocking the thing under the crash of swords he lets his arm catch on the backswing. And then the pistol's comin' up and pointin' true...

And gettin' batted aside like it were nothin', unhappily discharging in the process, and my, if he hadn't moved just then, he'd have shot his own foot off, and wouldn't that have been embarrassing? He hops back, cursing at the bastard, feelin' the phantom sting in his toes, and he's off-balance, he knows he is, and there's Jamie, comin' around like the wrath o' God... And there's Jack Sparrow, on his arse in the dirt, sword and pistol skitterin' away, an' a Navy sword held steady at his throat. The Commodore pants faintly, wig askew, and Jack could swear there's more than just satisfaction in that stormy stare. Could swear there's something altogether too hot for that an' all.

"Got me, mate," he wheezes, gasping a bit, and maybe not all from exertion, either. Damn the man. Standin' there all smug and pretty, with that pretty blade all lined up, and that intent expression... Not fair. Not fair at all, the man bein' as pretty as that. Distractin' him at a crucial time. You want dirty tricks, there's a fine one. Gettin' pretty, dirty Commodores t'do the capturing. Not fair on poor innocent pirates. Not fair at all.

"So—it would—seem," Norrington manages, and look at that, he is out of breath after all! Jack feels himself grinning at that, absurdly pleased. Gave the man a bloody good work-out, did he? All to the good, mate. All to the good. And then the Commodore is straightening up, nose flaring as he calms his breathing, that sword held steady at Jack's throat with a neat little curve of one wrist, and suddenly Jack's havin' a wee bit more trouble with his own breathing, and never mind the Commodore's. Oh, so not fair.

"Well mate," he breathes, reclining back—away from the blade, and that's always nice—and smirking up at the smug bastard. "Now that you be havin' me... jest what would ye like to be doin' with me, eh?" He gives a little leer, just a gentle one, because the Commodore has certainly earned it, and promptly sucks in a breath at the sea-change in the man's expression, at the squall of lust an' pain an' exhaustion an' damned pretty triumph... Oh, now that's not right. That's not right at all. Bloody hell an' god's teeth.

"I should kill you," Norrington growls, voice rough an' stormy with frustration. "I should damn well run you through now, before anyone else can step in and save your sorry hide." An', alright, Jack owns that maybe he's got a right t'be a wee bit frustrated about that. What with the missed hangin', an' Elizabeth with her little cannonade at the finish there...

"Weren't my fault, mate," he says, earnestly. "Didn't ask 'em t'do it, either of 'em. 'Specially her. Didn't want her t'do that to ye. Tol' ye. Was rootin' for you, mate. Really was." And he was. He was. Damn fool lass hadn't a half-clue what she was passin' up, jes' for the sake of youth an' a pretty face, an' skill that weren't quite jaded yet. Bloody twit, too, t'do it like that, to leave the man with only bare pride, and that dented an' all by Jack's own escape. Nothin' he could do, though. Weren't going to hang just 'cause Lizzie was feelin' stupid, after all. He winces, and does his best t'look repentant at the hurt man with the sword.

Who sighs, one hand coming up to rub gently at the bridge of his nose, eyes drifting closed in pained exasperation. The sword's as rock-steady as ever, but Jack hardly notices, because damn and blast the man, he's got t'stop randomly lookin' so damned pretty! It's past the point of consideration, now. It's just plain mean, t'be doin' that in front o' Jack, to be lookin' so tired and weary and stern an'... an' pretty! And when the Commodore opens his eyes again, Jack knows he's starin', knows he's all but droolin' at the man despite glarin' daggers at him as well, but he damn well doesn't care, because even pirates have their bloody limits, and this is well past...

"Sparrow?" Almost a yelp, an' the look on the Commodore's face is almost comical in its confusion, an' that just makes it worse, because that means the man hasn't even been doin' it on purpose, that means he's just been nat'rally that pretty, that it weren't even a friendly bit o' manipulation between ol' mates, that he's been stringin' Jack along without even tryin'... Too much. Too damned bloody much, and Jack's knocked the sword aside before he's even thought about it, an' Jamie's still too damn bewildered to stop him as he lunges to his feet, as he grabs hold o' them pretty lapels with their pretty brocade, as he presses his hot angry mouth to that pretty snarl, to he pulls the damn, blasted, thrice-cursed, evil, pretty bastard into a kiss like sword-fightin'...

Oh. Oh. Oh gods an' little bloody fishes. An' it is like sword-fightin', an' there's teeth, and tongues like blades, and Jamie's givin' at first, confused like, an' then he's fightin', then he's drivin' Jack back, duelling his tongue right back outta Jamie's mouth, chasin' it back into Jack's own, an' there's a hand still holdin' a sword hilt at the back o' Jack's head, pushing him close, holdin' him tight as tight can be, an' a fist in his shirt, an' oh gods Jamie, ye've no damn right t'be doin' that, ye bloody bastard, don't you dare stop...

It stops, o' course. Has t'stop. Has t'stop afore they bloody drown, because there's no bloody air, and even if there were Jack couldn't bloody breathe it, not like that, not with Jamie right bloody there, but he has to, he has to, and the breath tastes like bloody rum, the way it goes t' his head, and there's Jamie, lookin' all confused an' hot an' furious an' hopeful... An' hopeful. Hopeful. Like a drownin' man seeing a boat, an' he don't want to, because he thinks the captain of yon boat might not be the best friend he ever had, but it's there, an' it's all he has, an' he's dying anyway...

An' just like that, all Jack's anger slips away like mist in the mornin', an' his hands are comin' up, ignoring the Commodore's little flinch, an' just holdin' that face, gentle like, easy. Pettin', gently, soothin'. Because Commodore James Norrington is dangerous as bedamned, an' he has a sword, an' he probably still wants to kill ole Jack despite it all, but he's pretty, and hurtin', and Jack just can't be leavin' treasure like that lie. He just can't.

"Shhh," he says, smilin' a little, with maybe a touch o' that sweet pretty smirk his Commodore likes to wear, but only 'cause it is a game, because it's all just a bit o' sword-fightin' between ol' mates, an' he won't ever really hurt the man, but a little play-actin's only t'be expected... "Yer all right, Jamie, lad. Just a little hot after our tussel, is all. Yer all right."

And there's that proud back stiffenin' up, that cheeky head-tilt, them flashin' eyes as the Commodore draws pride around him like a coat, and damn him, don't be doin' that when Jack's so bleedin' close ... "I assure you I am quite aware of my own state, Mister Sparrow!"... an' there's that little smirk, tucked in the corner o' that sweet mouth, and somehow the hand in Jack's shirt hasn't fallen away, an' in fact seems t'be drawin' him even closer...

"And perhaps," James whispers, rough an' hot an' bloody sinful against his ear, "Perhaps I am not the only one feeling the heat, as it were. Hm? Mister Sparrow?" An' it's right bloody lucky the man don't seem t'be wantin' an answer, because Jack's all out an' ready t' skip the whole conversation part of this venture, when the man reaches out to take Jack's earlobe between sharp, pretty teeth, and growls, actually growls, against his skin, an' the word he growls is Captain. And that tears it, that really tears it, sod the bleedin' rules of engagement, Commodore's clothes are coming off right bloody NOW! An' then other things are happenin', very happy, very hot things, with lots and lots o' pretty skin, and pretty snarls, an' really, impossibly pretty little moans, and that smirk, that bleedin' smirk, and if the Commodore never walks bloody right again it'll be just his own bloody fault for bein' that bloody sinful, an' a temptation beyond the means of any pirate to resist. So there!

It's only later, when he's pettin' absently at his pretty Commodore's heavin' chest, leering happily at him through a haze o' pleasure, that he thinks t'take a wee look around at the smithy and the right bloody mess they've made of it, and the swords lying a few feet away, all shiny an' satisfied, that he wonders if he'll ever be able t'draw a blade again without gettin' all distracted an' hot an' bothered...

James blinks up at him as he lets loose a hail of filth as'd make a Tortuga whore blush to her boots, lookin' all pretty an' bemused again, and Jack stabs him in the chest with a finger an' rails against the unfairness of it all, and the Commodore's suddenly smirking again, that damned Navy little smirk, and Jack has t' kiss him again, jest to get rid of it, but that doesn't make it any better, doesn't change the fact that his Jamie's the biggest bloody cheat that ever sailed the seven bloody seas, because how's he supposed t'take up a sword against that uniform ever again, with that picture in his head?

Damned cheatin', it is! Bloody Navy, sending bloody smug pretty Commodores against poor helpless pirates. Bloody cheatin'! An' didn't the smug bastard just know it, too!