~11 years earlier~~

There's no such thing as just another day anymore.

There hasn't been since Rashid had snatched him off the streets-or, more accurately, caught him with his hand on the man's safe, but that's all the same to Sinbad. Now, there is no routine, no adjusting, and he finds he likes it this way.

Just because he's not going back to his old ways doesn't mean he's forgotten them, and Sinbad slips silently out of the studio at the end of the day, avoiding Rashid's request to go home together. There are limits to how much time he wants to spend feeling like a pet, after all.

So it's down the fire escape and onto the street, and Sinbad lands lightly in the alleyway, spirits already lifted. There's that urge to go, to ignore everything he'd planned on, everything he'd promised and flee, and maybe he will-

Just for a week or so. Rashid will trust him to come back. Or he'll set the cops on his trail, that's a possibility too.

The first tripwire is somehow missed, stepped over courtesy of Sinbad's long strides, and his stalker is suitably annoyed by it all.

It calls for a much less subtle approach the second time around-a veritable noose of wire this time, caught about the man's (teenager's, really) ankle and in one, sharp yank, sending him face first onto the concrete of the alleyway. The setting sun, quickly turning to night, is all a perfect cover, and a booted foot shoves a less-than-sizable weight down onto Sinbad's shoulder from behind, the click of a gun against the back of his head following in short order.

"Is there anything you would like me to tell your master before I kill him next?" The question is a quiet one, the words cut notably with a Russian accent.

Well.

Sinbad can't say this is an expected turn for the day to take.

"You know, it's not my first time facedown in an alley like this," he remarks, thinking fast. At least, he attempts to think, as well as he can when there's some tiny Russian assassin sitting on him with a gun pressed against his head. Carefully, without wriggling his body, he toes off his boot, holding it lightly between his toes. "And tell him I don't have a master."

He kicks hard, sending the shoe flying at the attacker's head (he hopes) as he rolls, aiming for his feet.

A growl of irritation is about as much as Sinbad gets as a result, and the assassin yanks on the wire again, reeling Sinbad in with surprising strength. "You're certain," he grunts, and it's his knee directly into Sinbad's sternum that follows as he looms over Sinbad in a crouch with all five feet of his height, chest heaving a bit from the effort to get his gun underneath Sinbad's chin, "that's all you want to say?" The safety clicks off.

Sinbad blinks. "You're tiny."

Then he's got the knife from his thrown boot, flicked out with a single fluid motion, and tiny or not, fast or not, strong or not, he doubts the kid is proof against a knife under his chin. A corner of his mouth twitches up, and his eyes flash. "Who do you think is faster?"

A pair of oddly golden eyes narrow, and with little hesitation, the gun changes positions-pressed instead to Sinbad's shoulder, wherein calmly, the trigger is pulled.

It would be a lie to say Sinbad had been expecting that.

The blast sends a shock of pain coursing through his system, wiping out any chance he had of thought, and his body convulses, a scream going through him, knife digging into the kid's neck, though he stops it just in time to keep it from going through. He lays back, panting, eyes pricking with tears he won't let them shed, and bares his teeth. "Damn. You're a cold little shit, aren't you?" he pants, grinning up through the pain.

"Drop the knife, and I'll put you out of your misery." Why his target has to be so noisy about it is beyond him. Truth be told, though, he didn't exactly expect this much of a struggle. His head jerks up at the sound of doors slamming-and with a jerk and a curse, he wrenches himself away from Sinbad. Never mind that he belatedly realizes the sound is from across the damned street; the job is ruined at this point, anyway.

Sinbad thinks faster than he would have given himself credit for-maybe he's kinda good at this kind of thing after all-and grabs the kid's own wire, tossing the loop out and around his neck in what he has to admit is a hell of a lucky throw.

In an instant, the assassin whirls, hissing, snarling, feral even before the noose has tightened, digging a hand into the gunshot wound on Sinbad's shoulder very much on purpose. "If you want to die so badly still, that can be arranged."

Oddly enough, the pain lights Sinbad's body up like fireworks, sending adrenaline like he's never felt before coursing through his body, and he lifts the boy by the throat, slamming him against the wall, eyes blazing. "Who sent you? Why are you going after me? I've never even met a Russian except Big Vlad, and he liked me a lot!"

The boy sneers, reeling back just enough to spit in Sinbad's face. "You think the Russians are after your master? Small wonder he keeps you as a pet, you must make a very good vapid trophy."

Sinbad glares, then spits right back, aiming for the eyes but sort of hitting the kid in the mouth, which he feels the need to apologize for (and quells that quickly). "I only said Russians because that's how you talk! But unless you want me to drag your ass to the cops, start talking."

One last, put out look is settled upon Sinbad before the kid squirms, abandons his gun, and shoves his hand down into his own pocket instead, pulls out a pill that he downs back dry.

Sinbad's eyes narrow, and all he can think is that if I don't find out who he is, anyone could come for me. He grabs the kid's jaw, forces it open, and shoves two fingers deep down his throat, praying, don't be as good at this as I am...

Really, he tries not to gag, but having a gag reflex is sort of important for his career. It isn't as if most of his targets try to keep him from killing himself, anyway-

Coughing, reeling back to keep some distance and try not to toss up the contents of his stomach, he bites down onto Sinbad's fingers-and hard.

Sinbad snarls, and mutters, "Fine!"

He wriggles his fingers down the boy's throat, and brings up a knee hard into his stomach, driving him back into the wall. "Throw it up, asshole!"

Well, there's no helping with something like that, no matter how he tries not to. If anything, it's a conditioned response, and the next dry heave of his stomach brings the poison back up, leaving him to weakly shudder and glare up at Sinbad with eyes even icier than before as he wrenches his head to the side. "Not," he rasps out, "going to tell you anything."

Sinbad tosses the pill to the ground, and his expression softens, even if his hand stays as hard as ever on the boy's throat. God, it's been a long time since he'd said those same words to Rashid, sprawled on the ground and looking down the barrel of a large pistol, aimed right at his head.

He looks the kid up and down, and pulls an energy bar out of his pocket, undoing the wrapper with his teeth and shoving the end of it inside. "Eat that," he says firmly.

Another growl, and the boy makes no attempts to obey, save to bite the end of it off, spit it aside, and huddle back against the wall as much as he can, no matter the hand pinning him there. He should have shot himself, that would have been quicker, but there's always a chance to recover from poison and finish the job properly.

Sinbad narrows his eyes. "That's not poison. It's an energy bar. And it's good." He takes a bite himself to prove it, then tosses the boy over his shoulder. "Fine. I'm kidnapping you."

"W-what-" Sinbad is surprisingly strong for someone he so easily knocked over before, and no matter how he kicks and squirms and struggles, it seems to do little good. "I'm-put me down, I'm not ever going to tell you anything, I'll kill myself first!"

"Good, I don't want to hear anything." Sinbad fetches a sharp slap to the boy's rear, almost blacks out at the pain in his own arm, and lurches against the wall. "You should shut up, or someone will hear you. Then the cops will come and investigate. Or….or I could take you to Rashid."

"I'll stab you in your shoulder," the boy snarls out, and twists around to make a grab for a knife that's undoubtedly strapped somewhere to his legs. "And you'll be on the ground again in about five seconds, wishing you were dead-"

"I already hurt a lot, so quit squirming around!" Sinbad snarls. "We're going to be out on the street in a second, so if you don't hold still we'll flag down someone who calls 911!"

"I'll scream," is the immediate, flat response, "that you're kidnapping me."

Sinbad grins. "Okay. Go ahead. Enjoy Child Protective Services, I hear they're great this time of year."

He seems rather unfazed by the idea. "And that you tried to rape me."

"And that there's a gun with your fingerprints, and a hole in my shoulder. Is it licensed to you, by the way?"

"I'm 14, I believe in your country, that's considered illegal." The boy twists around, glaring at him. "Do you really think they're going to believe someone like you over someone like me?"

"I have a disarming smile!" Sinbad counters. "You're unpleasant and creepy!"

"I can cry on command."

"I can do almost any bodily function on command, beat that."

"… That's disgusting."

"Says the kid who threw up on my hand."

"You shoved your hand down my throat!" A snarl, and the boy twists around again, drawing his knee up to kick Sinbad in the side of the head. "Now put me down!"

Sinbad's mind reels, and he tightens his hold, holding the kid's legs down. "I'm going to cut off your feet if you don't knock it off. Why do you want to kill me, anyway? I'm so lovable!"

"I don't give a damn what you are, it was an assignment." He gnashes his teeth together, reaching a hand 'round to grab Sinbad's ponytail instead and yank.

"OW! You little brat!"

Sinbad turns quickly, knocking the kid against the wall, though not hard enough to knock him out. "I just saved your life, be more grateful!"

"You're the reason I had to take that pill! Failure isn't an option!" His head spins, but his fingers tighten into Sinbad's hair all the more. "Let me go or I'll rip the hair from your head, just wait."

"Failure is always an option! Failure is sometimes a great option! And if you rip my hair out, I'm going to give you a cut for every single strand of hair!"

"Do it, I don't care! Maybe I'll bleed out and die like I was supposed to!" Even still, his fingers shake a bit, no matter how they refuse to loosen. "Put me down."

"Stop holding my hair hostage!" Sinbad snaps. "My hair didn't do anything to you!"

"It's your fault, it's really long and asking for it!"

Sinbad snarls, and dumps the kid on his feet, holding him around the neck again. "I didn't fucking ask for anything! You shot me! Why'd they send a fucking kid anyway, they should have known someone as small as you couldn't do it!"

Calmly, and without pretense, the boy reaches up, grabs Sinbad by his wounded shoulder, uses that hold as leverage to hold him into place, and slams his knee quite solidly into Sinbad's stomach.

Sinbad almost blacks out from the pain, dropping down to one knee, hand squeezing tighter than he intends around the boy's neck, dragging him down too. "You," he wheezes through the pain, "should be embarrassed, I bet you have a bunch of training and shit and I'm just an actor, and I still beat you."

"I-" All the more reason I should have died. Damn, but Sinbad's stronger than he looks, and that makes him angry. Thrashing gets him nowhere, especially when Sinbad is intent on holding tight to his neck, and so eventually, the boy gives up with a heavy, ragged heave of breath. Fine. He'll wait. Then he'll kill himself, when he isn't being held onto like the spoils of victory.

Sinbad nods decisively, and tries not to black out as he stands, his shoulder feeling worse and worse with every heartbeat. "Okay. Cool. Come on," he adds, as if he's not dragging the kid with him by the neck. "If I'm gonna hide you from Rashid, you have to shut up, okay?"

Why would you want to hide me in the first place? is the question he bites back, but he jerks his head in a semblance of a response. Just stick to his training, that's key. Not a word needs to be said from now on.

Sinbad does toss the kid over his shoulder when he climbs, shoulder screaming even if he avoids using it, up through fire escapes to get to the attic. There's a cot already set up, and snack foods, and a fuzzy 12" TV screen in one corner. Sinbad dumps the kid on the bed, then strips off his shirt, checking out the damage in a nearby mirror. "Yeah, no way I'm gonna be able to hide that," he says moodily, more horrified at the look of the wound than the pain. "At least you used a small caliber. You can eat, if you want."

Rather than do that, the boy quickly finds a corner of the room to curl himself up into, knees drawn to his chest and eyes peering up over them as he makes himself as small as possible-and as unmoving, which becomes more apparent by the minute.

Sinbad stares at the little ball of boy, and wonders what the hell he's going to do. Rashid won't even let him have a goldfish, he really doubts the man will let him have a pet assassin. He has a feeling, too, that if he leaves the kid in anything less than a jail cell, he'll walk right out, and he can't be babysitting the whole time.

So, fine.

He sits down on the edge of the cot. "I'm leaving," he says quietly. "I'm sorry I brought you up here. Door will be open, window too."

The boy blinks back at him, but only for a second before huddling into a smaller, tighter ball. "… I can't really go back now."

Sinbad winces. "Can't go back without killing me? Sorry. If you want, I can give you a count of ten after I leave, and you can try again?" God, he hopes that sounds like the joke it's supposed to be.

A wary stare follows those words. "You're serious?"

"Uh...no." Sinbad shifts uncomfortably. "I mean, I can't stop you from trying, but I don't want you to kill me, no."

"Oh." He sinks back again. "Then I definitely can't go back. You should have let me kill myself."

Sinbad shrugs. "Then don't go back. Stay here. As long as you want, I don't mind."

"… I just tried to kill you." And I probably will again. And your master, too.

Sinbad stares at the kid. "So? What am I gonna do, kill you? I'm not that kind of guy."

"Should have let me kill myself," he repeats without batting an eye.

Sinbad almost tosses the kid a knife and tells him to have at, but some part of him that isn't cold yet stops him. He sits on the cot, tucks his feet up under his body, and asks, "Why do you wanna be the kind of guy who kills guys like me?"

A short shrug follows. "It's my job."

"So get a new job. There are lots of them. You could be a barista, or a garbage man!"

Those odd, golden eyes stare back at him, unwavering. "I've done this job for as long as I can remember."

"Uh huh." Sinbad stares, a little confused. "So?"

"So I have to keep doing it."

"Uh….why?" Sinbad stares at the kid. "You're like twelve. Do something else."

"Fourteen," is the irritable correction. "I'm fourteen. This is what I have to do."

"What you have to…" Sinbad trails off, shaking his head. "You should be in like, ninth grade. And you don't have to do shit, I ran away when I was your age. Besides, if they're not gonna take you back unless you kill me, and I'm not gonna let you kill me, then you can't go back, right? So you can't do the thing you say you have to do, so you might as well do something else." God damn, I am good.

The kid stares back at him for a long moment, attempting to piece together the relative amounts of nonsense spewing from Sinbad's mouth. At least, it's nonsense to him. "… But they own me." He shouldn't be saying this. Panic ripples down his spine and he spares a wary glance at one of the windows, contemplating his escape before he can keep talking. "They'll… if I'm not dead, they'll find me, and then I will wish I was."

"Bullshit. Free country, no one owns you." Sinbad pulls a candy bar off a shelf, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, and breaks it in half, tossing half to the kid. "Tell you what, why don't you stick with me? Then if someone ever comes after you, at least there's two of us, and if you ever think it's a better idea to kill me, then hey, I'm right there! That's convenient, right?"

"I'm not from this country." He doesn't bother catching the candy, and curls up into a smaller ball. "Neither are they. You're an idiot, they're just going to send someone else to kill you."

Sinbad frowns, picks up the candy and throws it again, hitting the kid in the shoulder. Then he picks it up again and starts breaking it into smaller pieces, trying to hit the kid's mouth. "Doesn't matter. You're here now. That's how people get free, that's why everyone wants to come here. Who are they, anyway? I haven't done anything but suck a lot of guys off, do your bosses really hate homos or something?"

A growl, and he curls himself up to half-cover his face with his knees, glaring over at Sinbad. "It would make your master mad to see you die. They don't like him. He's going to die, too."

"Gross, he's not my master." Sinbad makes a face, and hits the kid in the head with a chocolate, popping another one into his mouth and chewing loudly. "He's more like my sugar daddy, or my boss or something. Is this seriously about Rashid? He's just a porn dude, are they extremists who hate porn? Ooh, is it a Christian fundie cult? I saw a movie about those on tv."

"… You obviously know nothing about him, and that's probably for the better," the boy mutters, reaching up a hand to pick the chocolate from his hair, eyeballing it, and then tentatively taking a bite. "I'm not telling you anything about the organization."

Sinbad shrugs. "Whatever. I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from the bathroom downstairs, I'll be right back. Run away or whatever if you want," he adds over his good shoulder, before disappearing down the staircase.

Far better right then is the idea of just curling up into a ball and never waking up. Wrapping himself up into his cloak, the boy huddles down, only a pair of eyes peeking out by the time he's done.

Sinbad doesn't mean to be gone more than five minutes.

He also doesn't mean for Rashid's mistress to catch him grabbing the first aid kit, to see his shoulder and demand that he go to the doctor, threatening to call the boss herself if he doesn't.

It takes hours, and a lot of uncomfortable questions ("Yes, I'm sure I didn't see the shooter! It was dark, he got mad when I didn't have any money! I don't know, maybe six and a half feet tall?") before they let him leave the hospital, loopy on pain meds and with his shoulder securely bandaged up. Anise, bless her soul, at least agrees to let him tell Rashid on his own terms, and after the weekend's over.

Probably ten hours have passed since he'd left when Sinbad finally gets the time to crawl back in through that window to his little lair, pleasantly pleased (and stumbling with a giggle) to see the kid still there. "Hey! You didn't run away! 'M'sorry, they made me to t'the doctor, I have pills!"

The kid jolts awake, eyes peering out from the cloak that he's still bundled up in. He doesn't remember falling asleep-careless, stupid-but judging by the light outside, it really has been awhile. There's definitely no way he can go back now, not after so long. "… Good for you," he mumbles, huddling backwards and pulling his cloak down over his head. Maybe, if he sits here long enough without moving, he can starve himself to death.

"They gave me orange juice too!" Sinbad vaguely thinks that he shouldn't be so delighted by the prospect, but he ignores that, grabbing a bottle of orange juice out of his backpack and shoving it at the kid, along with a tiny rattling bottle. "Here, stole you some pills too. I hurt you, take 'em."

"I don't need them." He shrinks back a fraction more. "Leave me alone, you're really annoying."

Sinbad sinks heavily onto the bed. "Not in the mood to fight," he says with a huff, and stretches out, flopping on top of the kid. "Good night."

"Don't-not on me, what's wrong with you?!" Ugh, Sinbad is heavy. It doesn't help that he himself is tired, and shaky, and hungry, and with those thoughts, the last bit of effort he wants to exude to make Sinbad go away disappears. Maybe Sinbad will crush him in his sleep or something.

"Noisy," is Sinbad's last complaint, and he tucks the kid-should find out his name later, he thinks vaguely-up to his chest like a teddy bear before promptly falling unconscious.

Oddly enough, even though he definitely, absolutely shouldn't, the boy sleeps.

Sinbad is warm, and that's strange. He doesn't tend to sleep in warm, comfortable places-it makes him sleep too deeply, and that's not safe. Here, though, he doesn't have a choice, not when Sinbad is squeezing him like a stuffed animal, something that doesn't help his aching joints, but it forces him to lie still and rest all the same.

If Sinbad had just let him die, that would have been easier.

Those are the thoughts he wakes to hours and hours later, still shaky, still hungry, with his face wet and the urge to get away and just die already increased tenfold.

Sinbad wakes to a shaking, squirming, terrified child in his arms, and pain.

For a moment, as hazy as he is, he almost just screams in confusion and panic, but a moment's focus lets that pass, and he breathes slowly out. Slowly, not putting weight on his wounded shoulder, he sits up, and on impulse, kisses the boy's cheek. "Hey. I'm glad you're still here. You should let me feed you breakfast, okay?"

A firm shake of his head, and the boy turns his head away to shove it down into a pillow. "Just want to starve." The stupid rumbling of his stomach makes that sound less than convincing.

Sinbad frowns, and runs a gentle hand over the bruises on the kid's neck. He sits up, folding his legs under himself, and says slowly, "I don't know your situation, really, and I don't know what you want to do with your life or whatever. But…until you have a better plan, how about you just stick with me and let me take care of you, and when you get a better plan, you can leave? Plus, I have pancakes."

That sounds ridiculous. A normal person would probably think it sounds nice, but he knows better. Nothing ever is nice. They'll find him if he doesn't die first, and that's far more incentive to die than anything Sinbad could say to keep him alive. "You're an idiot," is his muffled retort, shivering in spite of himself. "And what the hell is a pancake and why should I care?"

"You should care because they're yummy," Sinbad says, eyes wide. He pops a pill from his little bottle, praying it starts to work fast, because shit, who knew gunshot wounds hurt so badly? "What do you like, sweet or savory for breakfast? I have blueberry syrup and I have butter. The pancakes are a couple days old, but Mrs. Fatima always saves me good ones, she's Rashid's housekeeper."

Just listening to Sinbad makes him tired. He shoves his head back down into a pillow all the more. Was he deliberately assigned a target like this, just so he'd die? The thought makes him shiver, panicky in spite of himself. What did he do wrong? He didn't deserve this, did he? Not that it should matter, he should be ready to die at any time, but... "Just leave me alone, I'm not hungry."

Sinbad unwraps a foil package of a large stack of pancakes, ignoring the kid. "I'm always hungry. God, she does a really good job on these, Rashid's kids love 'em. Hey, what's your name, anyway?" he asks, dropping the pancakes onto a plate and shoving it into the microwave.

There's a long, wary silence before he finally, slowly provides: "They call me Ja'far."

"Huh. I'd have pegged you for an Alexi or a….I dunno, the only Russian I know is Big Vlad. You don't look like a Ja'far." Sinbad grabs the pancakes out of the microwave when it's only halfway to beeping, impatient at the smell, and puts half of them on another plate, smothering both of them with syrup and sticking a plastic fork in the kid's. "Here you go, Ja'far."

Making no attempt to take the plate, Ja'far promptly rolls around, presenting Sinbad with his back. "Not hungry."

Sinbad stares for a second, then picks up the pancake, and flops it blueberry syrup side down onto the top of Ja'far's head.

A slow twitch rolls through the boy's frame, but he otherwise doesn't move, simply letting it stay there. Maybe he'll get some nutrients through osmosis-no, no, he wants to die. No calories.

Sinbad lets out a frustrated little noise, then flips the kid over onto his back, perching on top of his chest the way the boy had to him the day before, and stuffs a piece of pancake into his mouth. "Eat," he orders. "Mrs. Fatima's pancakes are good. And you're sticky."

No matter how he hisses, it's hard to suppress his body's urge to chew and swallow, and he's not particularly up for choking, anyway. "… Doesn't taste like anything," Ja'far mutters, squirming to try and wriggle away, no matter how much bigger Sinbad is. "Get off, I told you I'm not hungry."

"Wrong! It tastes like blueberries." Sinbad peers down at the kid, and stuffs another bite into his mouth. "You should be nicer to me. You owe me, for shooting me, but that's okay. I'll accept your apology."

This time, he tries to spit it back up-easier said than done, from this angle, and so he flops back with an annoyed huff, swallowing angrily. "I'm not apologizing. And you're wrong, it doesn't taste like anything. Just leave me alone."

"But if I leave you alone, you're going to starve to death," Sinbad points out. "That would make me a murderer. I told you, I'm not like that." He tips another bit of syrup right from the bottle into Ja'far's mouth. Some of it goes in.

Ja'far hisses again, thrashing and getting a deliberate punch to Sinbad's shoulder in-all right, not directly to his shoulder, but to that arm, close enough-which buys him enough time to wriggle away and huddle himself back into a ball. "Don't you have work in another hour? Go do that." He's only had Sinbad's schedules memorized for weeks.

Sinbad grunts with pain, glaring down at the stupid ungrateful little ball of hate. "How the hell do you remember that? I barely remember that."

"I've been stalking you."

"Oh." Sinbad grins. "You must be really good at it, I never even noticed you." He rolls off the bed, tossing the rest of the pancakes onto the kid's side. "Fine, I'm going to work. If you're still here when I get back I'm taking it as consent to feed you again."

"I'll bite your hands off."

"So leave." Sinbad's face falls. God, it's annoying being nice to someone that doesn't appreciate it. "I'm not keeping you here, you don't need to act like I'm fucking mistreating you when all I did was try to help after you shot me."

"I can't leave! Why won't you just let me die, then you can forget about me? I'm small, it's not like it would take much effort to toss my body out afterwards." The words definitely have a panicky edge to them now. "I shot you, you should be mad at me and want me to die."

"Well, tough, I don't! All I want is for you to eat a fucking pancake then say thank you! And not shoot me again," Sinbad amends. "That really hurt. So I'm gonna go to work, and if you're feeling better after, I'll take you out for chicken or something, I have like twenty bucks stashed."

Ja'far stares at him, trembling, before just shaking his head and balling himself up within his cloak again. "You're stupid and weird."

"You're mean and tiny. And your clothes are really creepy." Sinbad tries fussing with his hair, but it's hard with one hand effectively out of commission. "I'll probably be back," he amends. "If Rashid is mad at me for getting shot I'm not sure what'll happen, so don't freak out if it's a while. Later."

Ja'far loses track of time.

Unlike him, but when he's huddled in a ball, shaking and shivering and fretting, there's nothing he can do for it. All he can think about is how the organization will be angry, will want him dead, will think he's revealed all of their secrets and locations and who else they want dead and who else they're working with and so his punishment will be awful before he's killed-

At some point, he dozes off-or sort of does, as much as he can with how much he's shaking.

Sinbad's bed-cot, really, that's all it is-isn't very comfortable, but it's better than what he's used to, and Ja'far curls himself up against one of the pillows when he finally does sleep, everything too-cold no matter how he feels disgustingly soaked in sweat. Maybe he really is dying. That would be convenient.

"Oy, kiddo! You miss me?"

Sinbad's cheerful smile fades when he sees the boy, less bitter and cold, more shaking and really cold, except for where Sinbad brushes a hand over his forehead. "Jesus, you're burning up! Uh….hold on a second, I think I have some aspirin, I think that's what you take when you have a fever, right? Can you sit up a little?"

Ja'far stirs, cracking open his eyes before he slowly, automatically attempts to obey… before simply flopping back over again, too dizzy to bother with the effort.

Shit.

At least Sinbad has the first aid kit, and grabs a thermometer out of the bottom, holding the kid's mouth open long enough to take a read. 104...god, he wishes he could remember whether you had to go to the hospital at 101 or 105, but 104 sounds pretty high.

If I go to the hospital, CPS will take him, and I don't think that will be safe for anyone.

He's seen the foster system up close-kids that need a whole lot of attention don't always get it, or get it in the way they need it.

Besides, there would be the whole matter of getting him there without causing a fuss.

"Okay," he mutters to himself, helping Ja'far up into a sitting position, grunting as the motion pulls on his shoulder. "You'll probably hate me for the next few days, but I'm gonna take care of you all the same."

Ja'far blinks up at him, not quite seeing with hazy eyes, and his head lolls back as he sucks in a slow, unsteady breath. "Should just let me die," he mumbles, weakly lifting a hand to bat at Sinbad's chest. "Just wanna lie down and not do things anymore."

"You're not going to die, you big crybaby," Sinbad says gently, tilting Ja'far's head up to put a couple aspirin in his mouth, followed by enough water to make him swallow. "It's just a flu, everyone gets one now and then. Head warm, body cool, I think-no, it's the other way around," he remembers vaguely, and tucks the room's single blanket around Ja'far. "Are you cold?"

"No," is the rasp to follow, and Ja'far lets his head fall against Sinbad's shoulder as he shakes, trying to curl up again into a ball once more. "'s fine."

Sinbad frowns, then curls up behind the kid, tucking his arms around him again. "Here, I'm nice and warm, that should help. Just until you're feeling better, okay? Oh, if you're hungry, I have some chicken noodle."

Ja'far blinks slowly at him, not even bothering to ask what the hell a chicken noodle is when Sinbad is warm, and that makes him stop shaking, just a little bit. Even if he needs to die, instinct makes him huddle up against Sinbad's warm chest, breath a little ragged from his shivering as he shuts his eyes.

The boy doesn't seem quite so awful this way, all curled up and shivery, and Sinbad suddenly remembers how little he's slept lately, and how much he hurts. Oh, well. They'll probably both be alive in the morning.

They are, no matter how Sinbad's shoulder aches when he wakes up, bad enough that he stumbles to down his pills with shaking fingers, breathing heavily and clenching his fists until they kick in, before he checks on Ja'far. Two more aspirin down the kid's mouth later, and he stumbles over to the induction burner, opening a can of Campbell's chicken noodle from concentrate and mixing it with water, letting the heat do the rest. "You like it strong, or weak?"

Ja'far's eyes slowly crack open before they shut again, and he makes no attempt to rise, only to roll over into the warmed sheets where Sinbad's body was only moments prior. "Dunno." It's hard to talk, when his teeth are sort of chattery.

Sinbad winces at the boy's weak tone. "Sorry it's so cold in here, I don't have heat. Soup should help, though." While the soup is cooking, he takes off his shirt, laying it across Ja'far like another blanket.

His eyes slide open again briefly, just long enough for him to reach out with shaking fingers to pull the shirt tighter around himself. "'s not your fault," he mumbles, "if I die."

"It's just a flu," Sinbad insists, and even if the soup isn't quite boiling, it looks warm enough, so he slops it into a bowl and grabs a spoon, helping Ja'far to sit up. "Here, eat this. You'll feel better. Can you hold the spoon, or should I feed you?"

"I don't get flus." Ja'far's head flops to the side, using Sinbad's shoulder as its resting place. "Not hungry. Just wanna sleep."

"I promise I'll let you sleep after you eat a little." Sinbad tilts the boy's head up gently, spooning a bit of sodium-filled goodness into his mouth. "It's good for you, all the magazines said so."

Ja'far coughs, trying not to choke and swallow instead, no matter how difficult it is when his body is freezing and shutting down seems a lot easier. "Salty," is his grumbling complaint, though he makes no real attempt to move away.

"Yeah, I guess the salt helps make it good for you." Sinbad spoons a few more mouthfuls in before he sets the bowl down, satisfied. "That should keep you from starving. I'll nuke it if you want more later."

That prompts a rather odd look before Ja'far flops down into the cot once more. "You're too stupid to work nuclear technology," he manages to mutter before dozing back off.

Sinbad can't quite figure out what the kid means by that, so he ignores it, letting Ja'far sleep on him for a couple hours before he gets restless and stands. He scrawls a note and leaves it resting on Ja'far's face before leaving, a giddy, nervous excitement going through him at the idea of what he's going to do.

Rashid's rules are simple: don't steal, and you'll be provided for. That's all well and good, but knowing what he does about the kid's past, Sinbad isn't so sure Rashid would take too well to having a tiny little assassin in his house, certainly not enough to buy him medicine and stuff.

That does send a surge of guilt through him, and he resolves to ask Ja'far again who his bosses were, and why the hell they'd be coming after a porn syndicate as nice as Rashid. That's something to deal with later, though, and Sinbad can't quite deny the rush of tingling excitement that goes through him when he successfully walks out the door of a convenience store with an unpaid-for bottle of flu medicine under his jacket.

He climbs back up the fire escape, not wanting to alert the doorman, and swings in the window. "Hey, tiny! I got you some medicine, you're gonna feel a lot better!"

"My name's not tiny." Ja'far doesn't lift his head from where it's pressed to Sinbad's pillow, pale hair stuck to his fever-flushed face with a sheen of cold sweat. His eyes aren't quite so gold as much as they are very, very dark now, and a little unfocused as he slowly heaves himself onto his back. "Cold."

"I bet. I really am sorry about-oh, I know!" Sinbad yanks down a ladder from the ceiling, crawling up to the tiny attic above, returning a moment later with a couple extremely ratty old coats. "I used to sleep on this sometimes, it should keep you a little warmer. Here, drink this before you go back to sleep." He pours a bit of the bright green stuff into the little plastic cup, tipping it down Ja'far's throat. "That should make you feel better."

Ja'far makes a face, the taste medicinal enough that he can actually get a smidgen of its bitterness, and he flops back down, pulling the extra layers of coats around himself into what can only be described as a nest. "Why… are you even doing this?" he mumbles, eyes lidding as he struggles not to fall asleep again right away.

"Because everyone should have someone to take care of them when they're sick."

Silly boy, you should be out playing. I'm fine, you don't need to take care of me.

Sinbad swallows hard. If he tries, he can almost hear her voice. "You have to sleep, okay? Here, I'll keep you warm," he volunteers, crawling in behind Ja'far again.

"Dumb," Ja'far breathes out, but he curls himself up against Sinbad all the same. If nothing else, the other boy is like a furnace, and he shuts his eyes as he shivers slowly. "… Thank you."

If that isn't progress, Sinbad doesn't know what is. "Just get better," Sinbad advises, tucking the boy's head under his chin. "Hopefully before next week, I have a lot of work next week."

"Sorry." Ja'far shivers again. "Really sorry."

"No, I just mean if you're still sick next week you might be kinda lonely." Without thinking, Sinbad presses a little kiss to the top of the kid's head. "Just sleep, you'll feel better."

A dim nod, and Ja'far buries himself into Sinbad's chest, curling up there as he dozes back off in short order.

The medicine seems to do the trick, so Sinbad keeps giving it to him, every six hours as the package instructs. Ja'far shivers a lot less when Sinbad is in the bed with him, so he stays mostly, even if he gets really antsy every few hours and has to get up to do some pushups and jumping jacks. He microwaves the same bowl of soup a few times before managing to get it all down Ja'far's throat, after which he takes his last hidden $20 bill and goes out to a market, bringing back a small tub of homemade (from the store) chicken soup. "Hey, sit up," he says gently, on the third day of Ja'far's illness. "I got you some really nice soup, it's less salty, you'll like it."

Everything's a little less cold now, though his vision still doesn't want to focus right away when he sits up, and waking up soaked in sweat still seems to be the norm. Ja'far flops over onto his back, blinking blearily up at the ceiling before pushing himself slowly, shakily onto his elbows. "You didn't have to do that," he murmurs, eyes lidded. "It all tastes the same."

"How do you know? You'd never had chicken noodle before." Sinbad takes a big chunk of chicken on the spoon and one of the wide flat noodles. "Look, there's green stuff in there, that's really good for you. Open up."

"No, I mean… everything tastes the same to me," Ja'far mutters, but he sighs, humoring Sinbad all the same. Okay, it is a bit less salty, but that's about as far as he can tell.

Sinbad grins after a few bites, taking one himself. "Yeah, wow, that's really good. Hey, there's more color in your face today, and you're not talking nonsense anymore. You still feel cold?"

"Not as much." Ja'far slinks back down, letting his head fall down onto the pillow again. "Can I take a bath? I feel disgusting."

"Uh, this place doesn't have a shower, I either do that at Rashid's place or at the Y. I could sneak you into the studio showers downstairs if you want. It's a set, but the water's nice and warm."

"… It won't take me long, but if it's a problem, I can do without." Not like he expects to live for very long, anyway. Ja'far bites his lip, turning his head aside into the pillow. "You've already done enough, anyway. I don't… really know how I am supposed to repay you."

"Nah, this time of night it'll be fine. Just stick close to me." Sinbad stands, then frowns. "Can you even walk? Do I need to carry you like to the bathroom?"

"I can walk." Famous last words, when Ja'far slowly tries to haul himself to his feet and promptly topples over, his legs buckling from disuse.

Sinbad, to his credit, manages not to smile as he catches the boy, gently lifting him bridal-style into his arms. "Don't be dumb, you're sick, I don't want to get you through a head wound too." God, he hopes the smile doesn't look too much like a grimace of pain, what with how his shoulder screams.

"It would be better if I died," Ja'far mumbles, flopping uselessly in Sinbad's arms. "But… if I'm not dead, I have a debt to you. I'm not good at anything but killing things, though."

Sinbad considers that, using his hip to open the door, carrying the boy downstairs to the set showers. Good, all the lights are off. "If you have a debt to me," he says slowly, "is that like a life-bond or something, like in the movies? Would you follow me around and listen to me and stuff?"

Ja'far's brow furrows, not quite getting the correlation, but he slowly nods all the same. "It's… well, I can't exactly go back. I failed a mission, they'll want me dead… so I don't have anywhere to go." That lights a fresh spark of panic up into his chest, and he swallows hard to keep it down. "So I guess you'd be my new master, if you wanted me to repay my debt like that."

"Master-" Sinbad wrinkles his nose, setting Ja'far on his feet, keeping a close grip on the boy's waist. "I don't like that word. I don't have a master, so you don't either. But I can be your boss," he volunteers, and strips off his jeans, kicking them to the side before starting to take Ja'far's clothes off.

"… But isn't that the same thing?" Ja'far frowns, blinking up at him, entirely unfazed about being stripped.

"Well, maybe. But if you don't like your boss, you can just quit. That's what we call Masters in a free country." He turns on the water, getting them both underneath the spray, holding Ja'far up by the waist.

"If I have a debt to you, I can't just quit." After so many days without, the water feels really, really nice, and Ja'far exhales a long, shuddering sigh, leaning his weight against Sinbad as he just lets it wash over him and slough what feels like weeks of grime and sweat from his body. "Can you just quit?"

"Sure I can." Sinbad frowns. "Soon. As soon as I turn eighteen. Otherwise Rashid will call the cops on me."

"So he's your master until then, by your definition of that word."

"Well-I mean, I guess, but he's not going to kill me or anything, he's just gonna call the cops because I robbed him. So I'm free to be arrested."

"You wouldn't be a very good thief," Ja'far slowly settles upon, staring up at him through water-soaked bangs. "You're really loud. All the time."

"I was a fine thief!" Sinbad glares, grabbing a bar of soap and washing traces of blueberry syrup out of the kid's hair. "He was supposed to be out of the house, not my fault he came back early."

"A good thief would have been able to get away," the boy points out without hesitation.

"He's fast. And way stronger than an old guy should be." Sinbad shrugs. "I thought I could talk my way out of it."

"Mmn. You're not very good at that, either." Ja'far tilts his head back, letting the water wash out the soap from his hair. "I feel better now, though. Thank you."

"Hey, he didn't kill me or turn me in. I think I did pretty good." Sinbad shuts the water off, then gives Ja'far a rueful grin. "No towels, sorry. That's why I use the Y, but I thought that might be a little far for you right now."

"It's fine." Ja'far grabs hold of Sinbad's arm for support before shaking himself out rather like a dog. "I can just wrap myself back up in a blanket again." He looks up hesitantly. "You're… okay, then, with settling my debt like this?"

Sinbad shrugs. "As long as you are. Just don't call me master. You can call me Sinbad, everyone else does now."

"… But if you're my mas…boss, then shouldn't I call you something more formal?"

"But I don't want you to. So do what your boss says," Sinbad says logically, tousling the boy's wet hair.

Stress briefly pulls on his expression, but the boy slowly nods all the same. "All right. If that's what you want." If he's learned one thing over his fourteen years, it's not to argue with his master-boss, though this one is… decidedly different.

Maybe that's not such a bad thing.