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

FlashFictionFriday #154 "Far From Perfect"

Williamsburg Bridge, or what was left of it, was a disaster zone. Mortals milled around, gaping at the destruction that had occurred while they were asleep. More than one was screaming about their car – either severely damaged or washed away in the East River below. Frantic calls for people to answer as friends and families tried to find each other again reached Apollo's ears from where he was standing precariously on one of the still-intact suspension cables that spanned the gap where the bridge should have been.

Like them, he was there for loved ones. His heart screamed in agony and a little bit of sympathy for the worried mortals, but while they had hope, he had none. All he would find were bodies, dead and cold. Already he had found an arm – just an arm, brutally torn away from the rest of the body – belonging to Nathan, and the knowledge of his son's fate weighed down upon him heavily. Somewhere in the river below him was the other missing one – his eldest, Michael. None of his siblings had found him (they'd found Elias, and Sally, but Michael's body had eluded their tired searching), and while they tended to the still-living, Apollo had taken it upon himself to continue the search.

Not that anyone knew he was doing it. The gods were in an emergency council, in a ruined throne room with the son of Poseidon making outrageous but justified demands of the gods and thoroughly distracting Zeus from the fact that not all of Apollo was in that room, no matter that he was supposed to be. When he found Michael – when, not if – he would take him back to camp personally. He could, at least, spare his surviving children the trauma of preparing the body for the funeral.

With the distant frantic cries of mortals ringing in his ears, he jumped down, a fall that would kill a mortal – had killed demigods – and came to a floating halt just above the water. It was clogged with bridge debris – tarmac and rods of metal and unfortunate, mangled, cars – and looked like a particularly ugly, haphazard dam. Both Elias and Sally had been caught up in that, alongside many other demigods, from Kronos' army, and their bodies were long since retrieved. Apollo made a cursory check, to make sure, but he knew, deep down, that Michael wasn't there.

He followed the estuary's flow, walking on the water and casting out all of his senses for something, anything, that would tell him where his son had ended up. Michael was small, and the waterway was big, but Apollo was a god and he would find him.

An empty quiver, floating on the water with a broken strap, was his first clue, and Apollo snatched it up, instantly getting an impression of Michael, confirming the ownership. It was battered, damaged by what looked like fire and metal alike, and Apollo pressed it against his chest in despair as he continued his slow search down the river.

Michael was good at hiding; he was small, lightweight, and loved to perch in high places where no-one could see him. It made him a fantastic archer in the grounds of Camp Half-Blood, where trees provided perfect vantage points, but Williamsburg Bridge's provided vantage points were far from perfect. His son had been unable to fight the way he was best suited to, and it had ended in tragedy. That same, small, lightweight body remained good at hiding even now.

Apollo almost missed him, even with all of his senses on full alert. Likely, part of him hadn't wanted to see the broken body washed up on the bank, surrounded by more bridge debris, but he had and he didn't waste time travelling by foot, instead disappearing and reappearing in a flash of light.

It was not a pretty sight. Some injuries were older, bandages wrapping around them and proving that he'd survived until at least the first lull in battle, where emergency treatment had been possible, but others were open to the elements, from his fall or shortly before it.

Michael's body was crumpled unnaturally, all his limbs twisted and disembodied in a way that screamed shattered bones, and part of his chest was caved in. A gash, angry and vivid against the too-white skin, ran from temple to chin, deep enough for the glimmer of bone to be visible. Tears welled up in Apollo's eyes and he let them fall unchecked as he knelt reverently beside his son. His fingers shook as he reached out to touch his cheek, brushing damp, unruly hair away from Michael's face. It had escaped the ponytail he favoured at some point and clung like strands of web to the skin.

At the first contact, a spark rushed through Apollo, originating at his fingertip, where it touched clammy skin, and zipping straight the way through his essence, screaming out at him the whole time.

He choked back a disbelieving sob.

"Michael?" he rasped, voice raw, as he tentatively cupped a pale cheek in his hand. His son's eyes, their beautiful deep brown so like his mother's, were closed as if he was in sleep, and Apollo's tears grew heavier as he felt the faint, so faint, song of life still straining to sound a final few notes.

Somehow, two days after falling, his son wasn't dead yet. Yet – his body was broken beyond mortal repair, or even demigodly; it was only a matter of time before it finally gave out.

The council was still going strong; no-one was looking at him. No-one knew he wasn't all there.

The Ancient Laws forbade interference.

Apollo had lost too many children to the war.

He made a decision.

"You're not going to die," he promised, cradling the broken body close in his arms and extending his essence to wrap around Michael in his entirety. He was so small. "I won't let that happen."

A flash of light later, they were gone.

This is actually the start of an AU I've been toying with which may or may not get expanded on in the future. It's come to my attention that the amount of Apollo&Michael fics in existence is, honestly, tragic - barring a single fic on here from 2010, I'm the only person I can find who's ever written them, so there might be a bit more of these two's relationship appearing from me! Naming this thing was a real pig; a title was eventually taken from the lyrics of Into The West.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari