"Take a wife."

It's a nag that Sinbad hears often enough—one that he tunes out, more often than not. There are a dozen reasons why the idea bores him, annoys him, irritates him, of course; what could a wife bring him other than 'legitimate' heirs, after all? Companionship, support, love, sex—all of those things he has otherwise, and the thought of a single person providing all of that to him is a little less than pleasant, besides.

And yet, Ja'far never fails to mention it, pointing out a dozen princesses that would fall over themselves for his hand, and honestly, that's as appealing as a bed made of rocks. Sinbad grimaces through the seemingly ritualistic tellings of their names and countries and oh, god, they all sound terribly dull, and why does he need legitimate children, anyway, when he himself had no predecessors and was once deemed unworthy?

"You are getting old, Sin," is the final straw from Ja'far's tongue, something that snaps him out of his reverie and back into glaring, huffing focus, especially when half of his own generals giggle like schoolchildren at the thought of him having grey hairs.

"Why," he flatly intones, "do I need to take a wife? You already nag me and deny me sex."

There's silence that reigns, and Sinbad realizes that he has spoken out loud, especially judging by how red Ja'far's face suddenly is. Ah. Too far, apparently. Silence turns to laughter, and for a moment, he regrets nothing—

Until he finds himself not-so-subtly denied alcohol that evening as well, and the evening after, and he quickly realizes this is another prohibition month, courtesy of Ja'far's ever-changing temper.

Maybe a wife would be easier.