A/N: Hi everyone! This is going to be a one-shot (for now). This was a scene that was supposed to go into my other story "Thinking of You." However, James and Isabella ended up aboard The Black Pearl in that story, and so now a lot of the scenes I had written for the other timeline are all wrong or need to be edited. I may reuse a lot of what you see here later on in "Thinking of You," but I really liked this scene and wanted to share it with you. In order to get a better sense of the characters, you might want to read the longer fic first. Keep in mind that other scenes may find their way here if they don't fit!

Please review! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing that you recognize.

It was a beautiful day! Pale blue skies, and no matter how hard she tried, Isabella couldn't spot a cloud in sight. As the freckles on her nose likely indicated, Isabella would never tire of the sun. A gentle breeze floated over the deck and carried the scent of her bathing oils to her nose. The source? A rather roguish-looking man who certainly smelled loads better today than in the last twenty-four hours.

James Norrington looked a bit lost as he gazed out over the waves to the Black Pearl ahead of them. Isabella had heard of the history between he and Elizabeth, and she wondered if the longing look in his eye had something to do with her. Suddenly determined to get this man engaged in something else, Isabella returned quickly to her room for her brush and a black hair ribbon.

"Good day, James." Isabella greeted with a smirk. He'd not given her permission to use his given name, but she felt it justified after the grief over his title. James glanced over at her neutrally. "Good day, Miss Murdoch."

Shaking her head in the negative, "I'm afraid that just won't do. We're all friends aboard the Faodail, my good sir. I insist you call me Isabella." James conceded with a nod. "Very well then, Isabella. What can I do for you?"

Isabella thought that his tone didn't suggest he necessarily wanted to be helpful, but she figured that might be because she tossed all of his rum overboard—but really, as if she welcomed drunkards aboard the Faodail!

Taking his arm in hers, she began to lead him to the steps of the upper deck. "Well, we got your bathing taken care of, but now it's time for that hair to be a bit tidier, don't you think?" They were nearly to the steps when he stopped resolutely, having caught sight of the brush.

"Mi—Isabella, I assure you that I can brush my hair just fine, thank you!"

"Oh, I'm sure you can James, except I'd like to do it for you. It'll be relaxing! I'll show you!" She grabbed him by the hand and tugged him down in front of her. "I promise I'll be gentle." She was grinning widely, but James felt that she wasn't being unkind.

He sighed. "There's no stopping you, is there?"

She gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Now you've got the right idea."

Isabella untied the tattered ribbon from his hair, and slowly began to massage his scalp. He really did have such marvelous dark hair. If only it had more care, she knew it would be silky and soft.

James tried his best not to recline into her touch. He'd never had someone massage his scalp before, and it was all he could do not to completely relax—or even worse, moan with the pleasure of it. As such, he focused on keeping a resolutely grouchy look on his face, lest the other crew members take notice.

As it was, it soon became apparent that they had a bit of attention. Edward, or "Cutlass" as he was better known, was one of the younger crewmembers. He had cropped black hair, and a fine tan. His nose looked altogether too large on his face, and his smile was crooked. However, the boy was quiet and obedient. He'd been unable to read or write when he first joined, but he was a fast learner. Captain Murdoch discovered the boy had a talent for art, and made sure to encourage him to "document our grand journey on perilous seas" or something to that effect.

James noticed that the boy had his charcoal in hand, and was sketching away furiously, every few moments glancing up at Isabella and him. Great, now my shame will be immortalized in a drawing.

Isabella gently brushed through James' hair, making extra sure not to hurt him. She was sure that James was enjoying himself whether he admitted it or not. She could feel him subconsciously leaning back into her, and his shoulders were relaxed. Drawing the hair back, she added a tiny braid into the middle before sweeping it all back to the nape of his neck. She tied the ribbon securely and admired how much neater he looked already.

Isabella almost had the urge to hug him, but she felt sure that James could only suffer so many liberties being taken with his person.

Later that evening, Isabella heard a light knock on her cabin door. Curious, she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and peeked into the hallway. Outside her room, looking utterly bashful, was Cutlass. He clutched a piece of drawing paper to his chest before holding it out with both hands. "Miss Isabella?" He said nervously. The boy had steadfastly refused to remove the "miss" from the front of her name no matter how many times she corrected him, and so she had eventually come to find it rather sweet.

"I hope you don't mind…I drew a picture of you and the Commodore earlier. You looked really happy, and I think you should have it." At this, Cutlass gave a hopeful smile.

Gingerly taking the paper from the boy's hands (he was only a few years younger than she, but he still had that air of boyhood around him), Isabella turned it over and couldn't resist a smile.

The picture was really quite a work of art, even if only in charcoal. Cutlass had captured the hair brushing scene perfectly, and Isabella found even the grumpy expression on James' face to be rather sweet. In the image, she had James' hair clutched delicately in both hands while leaning over his shoulder to whisper something into his ear. Isabella couldn't deny it: she really did look happy there.

"Cutlass, this is marvelous! How can I ever thank you? I'll have to find a nice gift for you at the next port for sure!" Isabella already had an idea in her mind for the gift—she would purchase better parchment, or perhaps a canvas and further art supplies.

Cutlass scuffed his boot, embarrassed at the praise, but beaming nonetheless.