Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

All of Apollo's children inherited his healing domain to some extent. It was one of the few pieces of interference he manifested in his children, because the life of a demigod was dangerous and they all needed any help they could get to stay alive, but the way it manifested varied dramatically and that, Apollo did not control. Some of them could do little more than identify wounds and keep people alive long enough for more substantial help to arrive, some were gifted with a fraction of his own ability to heal and could perform what mortals would consider medical miracles, and some were all but useless as a healer, but their own body regenerated far more efficiently – and faster – than even a regular demigod.

He was under no illusions that the reason Michael was still alive was because his son fell squarely into the third category. His son had neither the patience nor the temperament to tend to the injured, but his body was capable of repairing itself almost twice as fast as the average demigod's. It had kept him just from falling over the brink of death during his days unconscious on the bank of the East River, and now that Apollo had given it a starting point, it was voraciously surging back towards life and away from Thanatos' reaching wings.

Even so, despite his regenerative ability, Michael had still yet to stir, and Apollo did not expect that to change for several days at least, if not a week or more. Apollo had given it a helping hand, but the injuries should have been fatal, and not even Michael's healing would be able to overcome that so quickly. His son had never scarred in his life – not as a young child skinning his knees, not as a teenager in weapons training, not even in the battles he'd fought earlier in the war – but already, Apollo knew that the gash down the side of his face would leave a scar.

Almost without thinking, he reached out to brush a feather-light finger over the dressing that covered the wound in question, carefully scooping away a loose strand of black hair that had settled on top.

It had been a week since his frantic healing session had ended, and Apollo had not left his son's side for a single moment. Parts of him were going around as normal, seeing to his regular duties and caring as best he could for the other wounded within the scope of the Ancient Laws and under his father's watchful eye, but this part of him (far less of him than he'd like, but he couldn't risk being noticed) had sat a solid vigil over his unconscious son and had no plans to leave.

Not even when she registered in his periphery, materialising on Delos and making a beeline for him with an intensity that would have unnerved anyone else.

"Apollo," his twin said, her voice firm as she approached from behind. "What are you doing? I've felt you here since the council ended and-"

Artemis' sharp intake of breath told him without looking that she'd just seen Michael, laid out as comfortably as he could be with his injuries on his chaise lounge. After the healing session, Apollo had changed him from his torn and disgusting war outfit into a golden chiton, and with the way his black hair fanned out across a pillow, to the untrained eye he looked like he was simply sleeping, despite the swathes of bandaging across almost all of his exposed skin.

His twin was not an untrained eye.

"What have you done?" she demanded, voice hushed but intense and overflowing with disapproval, anger, fear. "Apollo, you-"

She cut herself off, not giving voice to the words even in the safety of their home, but Apollo heard them loud and clear regardless.

"I thought he was dead," he said, equally quietly, because there were times to argue with his sister and times when he needed her to understand. "But he wasn't. Not quite." He left more things unspoken – the plea of what else was I supposed to do? and the rawness of I couldn't lose another child – but he knew she heard them as though he'd spoken out loud.

Artemis reached for Michael, her small hand resting on his forehead lightly. Apollo didn't stop her; she would never hurt one of his children, no matter how furious she was with him. The contact lasted only a brief moment before she pulled back, shoulders sagged in resignation even though her silver eyes stayed hard and furious.

"You're an idiot," she bit out. "Of all the foolish, irresponsible, dangerous…" There were other words in there, too, more along the same vein. Several of them she hadn't called him in millennia, since Asclepius' death. "He will die," she told him once she was done, matter-of-fact and confronting him with the truth he had avoided acknowledging. "He cannot live."

Apollo shook his head, knowing she was right but ignoring it anyway. "He's safe here," he countered, another truth, because not even their father could interfere with Delos.

His twin's look was scornful. "He will want to leave," she told him, tearing down his tattered defences and refusing him the chance to rebuild them before her next strike. "What will you do then? Let him die, or add him to the list of your children imprisoned against their will?"

"Delos is not a prison!" he snapped back at her, letting the insult to their home provoke him as he tried in vain to dismiss the agony that seared through him from her sharp barb, perfectly crafted to cause maximum damage.

Artemis did not even bother to verbally respond to his weak protest, raising a single eyebrow in a silence that pressed heavily down upon him.

Because she was right. Anywhere, no matter how beautiful, no matter the reason, could be a prison. One day, Michael would want to leave, and Apollo would once again be the jailer to one of his children, forbidding departure and watching as his son grew to resent him.

He'd saved his son's life, unable to face the loss of yet another child, but Michael would pay for Apollo's moment of weakness with his freedom, and as his twin forced him to admit it to himself, the knowledge made him sick with guilt.

"I'll work something out," he said, and his voice was supposed to be strong, confident, but the sound that came out was weak and desperate. He didn't even know if he was saying it to Artemis, himself, or his unconscious son. Maybe it was all three.

His twin's face softened, sending another barb through him because Artemis wasn't one for pity, or comforts, but now her aura had changed to one best suited for her new, scared and hurt, Hunters, the big sister Apollo pretended she wasn't.

"Apollo," she said quietly, like he was a stubborn, desperate child who had to stop running from the truth even if it hurt.

"I'll work something out," he repeated, forcing his voice to stay even, his tone to be convincing, because he would. He had to, even if he didn't have the first idea where to start.

Silver eyes bore into him and for a moment he thought Artemis would continue to press, keep tearing down his walls and convictions as fast as he could repair and rebuild, but then her aura shifted and her gaze passed once again to Michael. Apollo didn't know what she was looking for, or if she found it.

"Be careful, Brother," she eventually said, turning away from his son and leaving Apollo to face her back as she began to walk away. "I cannot tell you not to be stupid, because you already have been, but at least try not to be any more idiotic."

Apollo watched her leave, shimmering with the silver reflection of the moon as her form wavered and dissipated, before turning his own gaze back to his son, still unconscious and completely unaware of the conversation that had just taken place at his bedside.

"Oh, Michael," he whispered, slipping a palm beneath his head in a tender cradle and pressing his forehead gently to his son's. Steady, even exhales of air brushed Apollo's cheeks lightly, and his heart broke. "I can't regret saving you," he admitted, "but I'm so, so, sorry."

So I actually now have a plan for this fic so it might even stay chronological; certainly for now they're continuing in order. This particular chapter was supposed to go one way, but then decided that there wasn't enough angst, apparently. Whoops.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari