Just another sterling example of how Earth didn’t need an alien like E’Var to make its murder quota. Daria started surfing restlessly through the channels.

An euphoric hallucinogen. Tagen hadn’t said what this drug E’Var was making did, but seeing as its main ingredient came from the pleasure center of the human hypothalamus, an euphoric wasn’t out of the question. She considered asking him, but abandoned the idea. Even if she knew how to put the question in words he might understand, what would be the point of knowing? It didn’t have anything to do with her, and it would only put more pressure on Tagen to go out and find his fugitive.

More pressure was something Tagen did not need right now. He looked so much worse than yesterday. Oh, he was moving around more—due in large part, she was sure, to her forcing food and water on him whether he wanted it or not—but he looked horrible. Despite everything he said (and the increasingly hostile way in which he said it), it was impossible for Daria to look at him and not see a dying man.

Right on cue, she heard his door open. His step was slow and disturbingly heavy, and his claws scraped at the walls as he made his way to the bathroom. Daria watched the clock on the wall above the TV. It took him two minutes and ten seconds to walk ten feet. The door closed. A moment later, the shower came on.

She fought hard against the urge to go up and check in on him. He wouldn’t appreciate it. He might need it, but that didn’t matter. The more he needed it, the less he’d appreciate her help. She knew all about the paradoxical effects of pride.

But maybe it wasn’t that simple. Her mind kept going back to the look on his face when she’d asked if there was anything she could do to help him, and to the sound of his ragged voice telling her that she must never touch him, that yes, he would hurt her. These were things that should be filling her with panic. God knew, she’d freaked out more over a whole lot less since he’d come here, but all she felt was sorry…and sorry wasn’t enough.

Daria refocused on the TV, scrolling down through blips and bits of half-glimpsed images until she came to the movie channels. There, she slowed, brooding on the sound-bites Hollywood fed her while her mind occupied itself. Guns and explosions and snappy retorts and trenchcoats and car chases and sex.

Sex.

It wasn’t a big deal. It really wasn’t. She didn’t have to get all edged up like this. Because it was very simple, really. He needed help and she could help him. She couldn’t fix her air conditioner or change the weather, but she could sleep with him and he’d get better.

She’d had a whole night to consider it. A whole night and all of today to think about his hand on her back that day in the kitchen, so cautious. A night and a day to ask herself just what she was afraid of and to realize that when all was said and done, it really wasn’t him. Not even now, when he was probably at his very worst. It wasn’t him.

The water shut itself off, and Daria had time to channel all the way back up to the news before the bathroom door even opened. Tagen came downstairs, moving slow and climbing the banister in reverse, putting one hand in front of the other with a mountaineer’s caution until he stood unsteadily on the floor. He glanced into the living room, his eyes lingering on her before flicking to the TV. The newscasters were discussing with great seriousness the problem of rising gas prices. Tagen said, “Use plasma focus fusion cells,” in a dull voice and then shuffled away toward the kitchen.

She let him go, huddling on the couch and rubbing legs which felt too weak to hold her. In her mind, she heard the words she knew she’d use repeating and repeating themselves in a calm and sensible one-sided argument. She would not allow herself to imagine his reaction.

Something thudded heavily in the kitchen. Not heavy enough to be his body falling to the floor, but the sound was still alarming enough to force her to act, now, before she lost her nerve.

She stood up, smoothing her shirtfront over her waist and thinking of his hands and how they would feel on her bare skin. Knowing that she might just find out in the very near future made her feel flushed and faint-headed, but in fairness, not all of it was dread. The wholly dreadful part lay in imagining how she’d have to bring the matter up, but like everything else in life, it would probably get easier once she’d actually started.

She walked down the hall, her hands in nervous fists at her sides, silently moving her lips though her opening argument. He’d say yes or he’d say no, it was really just that simple, but she’d reached the point where she couldn’t live with herself just ignoring what was happening to him.

Tagen was sitting at the little table in the corner, in the seat he’d turned into his own, slumped over with his head on his arms. He was bare to the waist, positively glowing with sweat. His hair clung in wet lengths to his skin, outlining the precise dimensions of his skull. The day that she’d first caught him coming into Heat in her kitchen, the day he’d only looked a little sick, seemed like it had happened to someone in a past life. It was all of five days ago.

“Tagen…” Daria gripped the kitchen doorway for strength and took a deep breath. On any planet, the next words she was about to say were bound to be ominous ones. “Can we talk?”

He didn’t move, and for one awful second, she thought he was dead. Despite all his assurances that he could not be killed by the awful strain that ravaged his body, his heart had given out and he was dead.

And then he stirred, raising his head as though it weighed a thousand pounds. He shifted to meet her eyes, knuckling sweat from his brow. He was having difficulty focusing. “Daria,” he said, his voice a croak. Then he covered his eyes with both his hands and slumped forward once more.

“It’s not working, is it?” she asked. She got the bag of peas from the freezer and laid it on the back of his neck.

A groan, rusty as a barn nail, tore out of him as he leaned into her. There was agony in his face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She took his hand, placed it over the peas, and then went back to the freezer for more ice. “I really thought it would help.”

“It does.” He accepted an ice cube and rubbed it over his chest, his teeth bared. “I thank you for thinking of it. And for taking me to get it. I know it was difficult for you.”

She didn’t know how to feel, seeing him in this state and hearing him half-apologize for making her drive him to the Luv-A-Lot’s. She took a breath to nerve herself and said, “It doesn’t help enough. Tagen, you’re sick all the time. You’re not drinking enough. You’re not eating at all. You’re not sleeping very well. And you’re not getting anywhere in your search.”

“I know.” He pulled the peas away from his neck and placed them on his chest instead. “But it does help. It is a matter of an hour’s effort, not four. For that alone, it is worth it.”

Daria sat at the table and took Tagen’s hand, squeezing until he dragged his eyes up and looked at her. “This can’t continue,” she said.

“It must.” He met her gaze tiredly and without emotion. “I will not leave Earth without E’Var, and so there is no choice.”

“Yes.” Daria was surprised at how steady her voice was, at how calmly she was able to sit and face him. “Yes, there is.”

It seemed that he looked at her for a long time before understanding bled into him. His hawk’s eyes narrowed, very slowly. “I do not know what you mean,” he said quietly. ‘Stop’ was hammered into every word.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continued doggedly. “And if I understand correctly what this…Heat thing does to you…then I think I can help you.”

His eyes shut and he turned away, his mouth tightening to a thin line. “No,” he said. “I will not force you.”

That was oddly encouraging to her. It was ‘No, I will not force you,’ not ‘No, that won’t help’. Daria took another deep breath. “Tagen—”