The second feeding was a deluge. It washed away the last footholds of his old self, leaving his mind a smooth, placid shore. He drank obediently, the warmth blooming behind his ribs, a sun rising in the hollow cavern of his torso. The faint, ghostly threat of the ache was banished completely. There was no pain. There had never been any pain. There was only the gentle weight of the blanket, the soft mattress, and the quiet presence of the one who brought the warmth.
Dada.
The name was a simple shape in his mind now, a cornerstone. It was the source. Jafar was a different word, a jagged and unpleasant sound from a long-ago dream. This was Dada. Solid. Real.
He lay still after the bottle was taken away, listening to the soft crackle of the torches. His body felt heavy and deeply, fundamentally calm. The liquid was a dense, living thing inside him, not just filling his stomach but permeating his whole being. It was a potent fuel, and his long-starved system, finally receiving it, began to awaken. Processes that had been sluggish and dormant for years kicked into life with an unnerving efficiency.
A low, gurgling shift moved through his bowels. A pressure built, unfamiliar and insistent. For a moment, a flicker of the old mind—the mind of Aladdin, who knew about shame and control and privacy—sparked in the fog. It recognized the sensation. It understood what was about to happen. A jolt of pure, fiery mortification shot through him. He tensed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He could stop this. He had to.
But his body was no longer his to command. It was an instrument being retuned, and it answered to the rhythm of the food, not the ghost of his will. The pressure became a slow, unstoppable yielding. A deep, spreading warmth bloomed in the thick linen between his legs, followed by the undeniable feeling of fullness and release.
He hadn't been able to stop it. He had soiled himself.
A raw, guttural sound of utter humiliation tore from his throat. He bucked on the mattress, a spasm of pure animal distress, his eyes wide with horror. The last wall of his dignity had not just been breached; it had been effortlessly dissolved from within. Tears, hot and thick, spilled from his eyes and ran into his hair.
Jafar, who had been sitting in his silent vigil, leaned forward. There was no disgust on his face. No anger. Only a soft, knowing look.
"Ah. There it is," he said, his voice calm and approving. "The body begins to remember its own rhythms. It is working as it should. There is no need for such distress, little one."
He stood and walked towards Aladdin. "Let’s get you clean. It won't do to leave you in a mess. That would be cruel."
Aladdin flinched away as Jafar reached for him, a reflexive, terrified recoil. "No. No, don't..." The words were fractured, broken by shuddering sobs.
"Hush, now. Dada will make it better," Jafar soothed, his voice a low counterpoint to Aladdin’s panicked gasps. He efficiently peeled the blanket back. His movements were practiced and impersonal, utterly devoid of malice, which was somehow worse. This wasn't a punishment. This was simple, necessary maintenance.
He undid the fastenings of the linen diaper and cleaned him with a damp cloth he retrieved from a small basin Aladdin hadn't seen. The coolness of the cloth on his skin was a fresh shock. Aladdin turned his face into the mattress, his shoulders shaking. He’d survived starvation, beatings, the Cave of Wonders. He had faced down a sorcerer and won. Now he was being unmade by a wet cloth and a pair of steady, relentless hands.
When he was clean, Jafar did not immediately reach for a fresh diaper. Instead, he paused. "So much of the sickness is from being cold," he said, almost to himself. "From being alone. The skin remembers."
He began to unbutton his own dark tunic. Aladdin’s breath hitched. He watched, uncomprehending, as Jafar shrugged the garment off, folding it neatly and setting it aside. His chest was pale and lean, surprisingly smooth. The lines of his muscles were like those of a serpent, long and economical. The faint torchlight glinted on his collarbones.
Then Jafar reached down and, with the same methodical care, pulled the simple linen shirt up and over Aladdin’s head, leaving him completely bare. The air of the room was cold on his skin, raising goosebumps.
"What are you—" Aladdin started, but the words died in his throat.
"Warmth," Jafar said simply. He slid his arms under Aladdin's back and legs and lifted him from the mattress.
And then he brought him to his chest.
The contact was a lightning strike. The shock of his bare skin against Jafar's—the heat of it, the solid feel of bone and muscle beneath—was overwhelming. A thousand dormant senses screamed to life. He could feel the dead-slow, powerful beat of Jafar's heart against his cheek. He could feel the slight friction of their skin as Jafar adjusted his hold. He was enveloped in his scent, that strange, intoxicating mix of hot spice and something else, something primal and ozonic, like the air after a lightning strike.
Jafar cradled him close, one hand supporting his bottom, the other spread wide across his back, pressing him firmly against his body. He sat down on the mattress, arranging them so Aladdin was curled against him like a newborn.
"This is how it should have been," Jafar murmured, his voice a vibration that traveled directly through his breastbone and into Aladdin. "For our kind, the first years are spent like this. Held. Warmed. Without this, the bones grow cold, the spirit withers. You were left in the frost."
Aladdin couldn't answer. He couldn't think. The direct, unshielded contact was too much. It bypassed his mind entirely and spoke to a deeper, older part of him. A part that had been cold his entire life. A part that craved this overwhelming, possessive warmth more than it feared the man providing it. A strangled noise, half-protest, half-sigh, escaped him. He felt his frantic, shallow breaths begin to slow, to match the steady, deep rhythm of the chest he was pressed against.
"Shhh. Just feel," Jafar whispered, his lips near Aladdin’s hair. "This is truth. The rest was a bad dream. No more streets. No more hunger. No more cold." He began to rock again, a slow, oceanic sway. "Only Dada. Only warmth."
Jasmine’s face tried to form in his mind, but it was like a sandcastle against the tide. The warmth, the heartbeat, the scent, the slow rocking—it was a sensory flood that washed everything away. Her name was a collection of sounds without meaning. Agrabah was a flicker of color, fading to gray. His own name… what was his own name? It snagged for a moment, a useless splinter, before the tide pulled it under.
There was only the feeling of skin on skin. The slow, deep drum of the heart. The voice that vibrated through him.
His lips parted. He tried to form a word, to protest, to ask a question, to say *anything*. But the words were gone. The pathways in his brain that led to language were overgrown, washed out. All that came out was a soft, questioning sound, a string of syllables empty of meaning.
"Ah… da… ba…"
Jafar’s hand on his back stilled. He pulled back just enough to look down at Aladdin's face. Aladdin blinked up at him, his eyes unfocused, his expression one of placid confusion. He was a slate wiped clean.
"Mmm?" he managed, the sound soft, inquisitive.
A slow smile spread across Jafar's face. It was not his usual thin, cruel smile. This one was different. It was genuine. It was radiant with triumph and a profound, terrifying tenderness.
"Yes," Jafar breathed, his voice full of reverent wonder. "There you are. There is my son."
He smoothed Aladdin's hair back from his forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. "All the noise is gone. Perfect. You are perfect."
He settled Aladdin back against his chest, tucking his head under his chin. He felt Aladdin’s body go completely limp, melting into his embrace, a final, absolute surrender. The boy nuzzled against his warm skin, seeking comfort. A low, contented babble spilled from his lips, a meaningless stream of soft sounds.
Jafar closed his eyes, holding his son. The room was quiet save for the crackling torches and the soft, infantile noises of the creature in his arms. The unmaking was complete. Now, the real work could begin.