It's an effort to keep Sparrow upright when he finally reaches his peak, flopping against James as though he had no bones in his body. The expression on his face is extraodinary, and James finds himself staring; open-mouthed ecstasy and brow smoothed of all the lines of tension which had been there a moment before. His eyes are shut and the kohl sweat-smeared, condensed into a line across the crease of his eyelid, his lashes dark and obscenely long as they flutter with each breath. It's a strange thing, but it suddenly grips James that it would be an excellent idea to kiss the man just about now.

He looks down at Sparrow, spent as he is, clutching at James's clothing, and kisses him. No passionate claiming of his mouth now, though; he instead presses a quick, chaste kiss against the fabric of his headscarf, smooth as silk from so much wear. Why, he couldn't say. Though he's in a better state than the man clinging to him, James Norrington is in no state to think any more than he has to.

A smile, then, twitching warmly about the corners of his mouth as he looks at Sparrow.

'Well,' he murmurs, in answer to Sparrow's gasped comment of a moment before, 'I am a talented man. And we all do our best.'

Though slight, Sparrow's body against him now is strangely heavy, and uncomfortably hot and sticky with sweat and semen. James grunts a little as he circles a hand 'round the pirate's thin back and hoists him up against himself, encouraging him to use his legs as they were intended.

'There,' he says. Where 'there' might be, he doesn't know, but it seems the thing to say