The world had narrowed to the circle of Jafar’s arms. The torchlight was a distant, blurry star. The cold stone walls were a forgotten dream. There was only the steady thump of a heartbeat against his ear and the alien warmth spreading through his limbs, chasing the last ghosts of pain from his marrow.
His mind, sluggish and syrupy, tried to grasp the shape of its own violation. *He fed me. He dressed me like a baby. I’m in his arms.* The thoughts were smooth, rounded stones, lacking the sharp edges of panic they should have had. The horror was there, but it was a city seen from a very high tower—a complex tragedy, too distant to touch.
Jafar shifted him, pulling him away from his shoulder to look at him again. His expression was one of intense, severe scrutiny, the way a master craftsman inspects a newly repaired instrument. He ran a thumb over Aladdin's cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"Better," Jafar murmured, the word a low rumble. "The light is returning to your eyes. I was afraid the malnourishment had become a permanent dimming." He smiled, a thin, proprietary curving of his lips. "My beautiful boy. My little treasure."
The endearments were so deeply wrong, they almost broke through the placid fog. Aladdin flinched. He tried to summon the fury, the revulsion. It was like trying to start a fire with damp wood. There was a flicker of smoke, a brief sputtering, but no flame. The warmth inside him soothed it away before it could catch.
"Don't..." Aladdin managed, his voice a frail whisper. "Don't call me that."
Jafar’s smile didn’t falter. "What should I call you, then? Street rat? That is what the gutters called you. A name given by filth." He shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. "No. You are my son. My precious thing. You have a proper name, a noble one, but we will not speak it until you are strong enough to bear its weight. For now... you are mine."
He settled Aladdin back against his chest, one hand splayed across his back, the other supporting him beneath his linen-wrapped bottom. He began to rock him, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The motion was maddening. It was comforting. The two feelings warred inside him, and the comfort was winning. His body, starved of gentle contact for a lifetime, betrayed him. It sagged into the movement, his muscles unknotting. His eyelids grew heavy.
A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. Jasmine. Her smile as she handed him an apple in the marketplace. Her hand in his on the magic carpet, the wind whipping her hair. The memory was a spark of defiance. He clutched it, held it up against the rising tide of comfort. *Jasmine.* He had to get back to her. He had to fight this.
He tried to tense his body, to pull away. It was a feeble effort, a mere twitch. But Jafar noticed it instantly.
The rocking stopped. The hand on his back tightened its grip, not painfully, but with an undeniable finality.
"Ah, ah," Jafar chided, his voice a silken thread of command. "None of that. You are chasing phantoms. Little daydreams of a life that was killing you." His tone softened again, becoming crooning and hypnotic. "That is all gone now. There is no one else. There is only the quiet room, and the warmth, and me."
He leaned his head down, his lips close to Aladdin's ear. "There is only your Dada."
The word was a physical blow. It struck the center of his chest and ricocheted through his entire being. A violent shudder wracked his frame. A dry, choking sob escaped him. This was it. This was the unmaking. He was being methodically disassembled, piece by piece.
"Hush, little one. Hush now," Jafar cooed, resuming the gentle rocking. "You are overwrought. The feeding has tired you." This lie was presented as an indisputable truth. "You need to rest. You need to let go of all that… noise."
Aladdin squeezed his eyes shut. Jasmine’s face was already fading, the details blurring. Her voice was a distant echo. In their place was the rhythmic thump of Jafar's heart, the soft rustle of their clothes, the overwhelming scent of spice and power that clung to the man holding him. His world was shrinking to these simple, undeniable sensations.
He was so tired. The fight was a distant memory. Survival had always been about adaptation. He’d adapted to hunger, to cold, to loneliness. This was just a new environment, wasn't it? A new set of rules. Warmth. Safety. No more aches. No more gnawing emptiness in his belly. All he had to do was… stop. Stop being Aladdin.
Jafar must have felt the surrender in him, the final, giving way of his rigid posture. He made a soft, pleased sound in the back of his throat.
"There now. Good boy," he praised quietly. "Such a good, sweet boy for your Dada. You see how easy it is? When you don't fight, everything is simple. Everything is warm."
He shifted again, laying Aladdin down on the mattress. He pulled a thick, woollen blanket from a spot near the door that Aladdin hadn’t noticed before and draped it over him. The weight was grounding, another layer of comfort and containment. Aladdin didn't move. He lay on his back, staring up at the stone dome of the ceiling, where the torchlight cast flickering, dancing shadows.
Jafar sat on the floor beside the mattress, watching him. He didn’t seem to have any other purpose. His entire attention was a palpable force, a heavy blanket of its own.
"It is a mercy, you know," Jafar said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "To be returned to this state. The world outside… it demands so much. It forces us to build walls around our true selves, to shrink and to pretend. To be a man." He said the word 'man' with a faint, dismissive curl of his lip. "It is a costume. A painful one. Here, you need no costume. You can be what you are. Young. Needy. Perfect."
Aladdin turned his head, looking at him. Jafar's face softened, the severe lines smoothed by a look of genuine—if terrifyingly possessive—affection.
"You feel it, don't you?" Jafar asked. "The quiet. The peace. Your body is finally getting what it needs. Soon, your mind will follow. It will let go of all the useless things it has hoarded. Names, places, faces… they will all fall away, like dead leaves. And you will be new again."
He reached out and gently stroked Aladdin's hair back from his forehead. "My son. My beautiful, perfect son."
The words didn't sting this time. They landed in the quiet emptiness within him and simply… stayed. They were becoming part of the room. Part of the warmth. Part of the new reality.
The silence spun out. Aladdin felt a strange pressure building in his throat. A need. The warmth from the feeding was a baseline now, but a new, smaller ache was blossoming in his stomach. A simple, childish hunger. His body, having tasted relief once, now craved it again. He fidgeted under the blanket. A soft, unhappy sound escaped his lips without his permission.
Jafar's eyes lit with understanding. "Oh? Are you feeling empty already? Your body is so very eager to heal." He picked up the leather bottle, which Aladdin hadn’t realized was already full again. "You must learn to ask for it, little one. Dada is here to give you everything you need, but you must learn to ask."
Ask. He wanted him to ask. To participate in his own dismantling.
Aladdin clamped his jaw shut, turning his head away to face the cold wall. A tiny, final rebellion. He would not ask. He would starve before he asked.
He heard Jafar sigh, a long, patient sound. "Stubborn. It is deep in your bones. A flaw we will have to smooth away over time."
Jafar didn't move to force him. He simply sat there, holding the bottle. The silence stretched again, but this time it was filled with Aladdin’s growing discomfort. The pangs of hunger were getting sharper, and with them, the faintest, ghostly echo of the deep ache in his bones threatened to return. It was a whisper of the old pain, a reminder of the agony that waited for him if he refused.
The warmth was a gift, and it could be rescinded.
Tears welled in his eyes, hot with shame. They traced paths through the grime on his temples. He was trapped. The choice was between a familiar agony and an unthinkable submission. Between the pain of the body and the death of the soul. His body was screaming its choice.
He made a small, frustrated noise. He couldn't say the words. He couldn't.
"What is it?" Jafar prompted, his voice gentle but insistent. "Use your words. Tell Dada what you need."
Aladdin squeezed his eyes shut again. The face he saw behind his eyelids was not Jasmine’s. It was Jafar's, severe and knowing. He was right. It was easier when you didn't fight. The fight hurt. The fight brought the ache back.
He rolled over onto his back again, his eyes wet. He looked at Jafar. He looked at the bottle. He opened his mouth, but only a dry crackle came out.
"Try again," Jafar encouraged, leaning closer. "I am listening."
The word came out as a choked, broken whisper, a shard of himself breaking off and falling away.
"...Dada."
Jafar’s smile was radiant. It was the most terrible thing Aladdin had ever seen.
"Yes, my sweet boy. Yes. Dada is here."
He leaned over, tenderly lifted Aladdin’s head, and brought the bottle to his lips. Aladdin didn't resist. He drank, and the warmth flooded him again, drowning the tiny embers of pain and shame. It was a deluge of pure, horrifying peace. He felt Jafar's hand stroking his hair, heard his low, triumphant murmurings. He was being praised. He was a good boy. He was safe. The thought was no longer distant or academic. It was a deep, resonant truth in the core of his being. He was safe here, in the dark, with his Dada. And a part of him that he no longer recognized was glad.