There's something wrong with Sinbad, Ja'far thinks.
Certainly, he has no room to talk, but he isn't taking in a child that just tried to kill him without hesitation, someone that held a blade to his throat and nearly succeeded. Then again, Ja'far is now following around the man who did—the man that now smiles at that child and pets his hair (even when Ja'far sort of wants to bite his hand off) and teases him and kind of worries about whether or not he'll burn in the sun because he's so pale.
There's something wrong with him, and Ja'far doesn't understand it.
Probably, Ja'far thinks, he could kill Sinbad in his sleep, go back to his masters and still be praised. It's why they sent him, after all; even at 14, he is still their most capable, their most deadly, and there isn't anyone else that can succeed if he can't.
Every time he considers it, however, Ja'far thinks of Sinbad's hand on his head, or the way he grins and laughs and leans far too much on him when he's drunk, about how heavy he is when he passes out that way on top of Ja'far, his easy breathing sounding more like a big cat's purring more than anything else.
There's definitely something wrong with Sinbad, because he's here and content to be here with Ja'far and while there's no way he can ever understand it, but Ja'far likes it all the same, and can't find any will within himself to make that change.