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

Warnings for Character Death and Survivor's Guilt.

Short little AU where Kronos skipped sending the minotaur on ahead and went straight for Williamsburg Bridge himself.

They're doing to die.

The certainty douses Michael like a bucket of freezing water being poured down his back the moment he locks eyes with glowing gold at the end of the bridge. Kronos' eyes in Luke's face are cold, the smile on his face a confident sneer, and there is no fucking way they are going to survive the full force of the titan.

The phone he stole from one of the sleeping civilians earlier burns a hole in his pocket; he has the number Malcolm's using memorised, exactly for this fucking scenario, except now that he's facing down the titan reality is crashing down on him and he knows that it doesn't matter how many reinforcements they get – if they stand and fight, they'll die.

They're already dying; Nathan's gone, Will is frantically fussing over a head wound Robyn took earlier, and there isn't a single one of Michael's siblings that isn't injured somehow, not even little Kayla and Austin.

The decision isn't a difficult one, the part of his brain that should put up a protest instead going numb with inevitability.

"Run!" he yells, flinging one arm back towards the direction of Manhattan. They can't fight head-on, but they've trapped the bridge to Tartarus and back because Michael always knew a cabin of archers and healers couldn't afford to fight fair, and if they can get off the bridge in time-

Except they won't, because Kronos is coming, in his stolen body, and the fucking titan won't give them enough time to get clear. Not unless someone stops him.

Praying to any god that will listen that his siblings heard his order, that they're obeying it, Michael follows his own instruction, except instead of running away he runs forwards, towards the approaching army, towards the titan readying his sword with that fucking smirk still plastered all over Luke's face.

Michael is going to die, but if it means his siblings will live then it'll be worth it a thousand times over.

His quiver is empty of arrows, and Michael isn't a melee fighter in the slightest but he still carries a knife for close-quarters emergencies. Against Kronos-in-Luke's-body a knife is laughably inadequate but it's all Michael has.

It gets knocked out of his hand almost immediately, barely managing to deflect the swing of Kronos' sword, and something inside Michael's heart shatters when he blocks the next attack with his beloved bow and the wood-and-horn of his reliable companion for the past eight years breaks, the crack of tension releasing jarring painfully all the way up his arm and into his shoulder.

His bow is dead and he's next but the battle isn't over yet. He staggers back a step, and then another, taking time he doesn't have to glance back over his shoulder and make sure his siblings have made it clear from the bridge.

None of them are visible in the glance he can snatch and he prays that means they've all made it to safety as he reaches into his quiver for the last time, fingers finding the detonator he's kept stashed in there since they set up the first traps.

The bridge explodes behind him, the air pressure blasting metal-and-concrete in all directions as though they weighed nothing. It grabs him, too, hurtling him forwards, and Michael has just enough time to see the mocking sneer wiped from Kronos' stolen face, hard and cold golden eyes glinting like Michael just pissed him off before he's colliding with the titan, and that's the death sentence he knew was coming.

He feels the sword tear through him, the talon-like grip on his shoulder before he's thrown backwards like a rag doll, twisted metal impaling as he lands on the torn wreckage of the Williamsburg Bridge.

And then he feels nothing.

Michael didn't expect the entrance to the Underworld to look like the infirmary of Camp Half-Blood, but it must do because that's the sight that greets him when he pries his reluctant eyes open. His body is screaming in pain, too, which is unfair because being dead is supposed to be painless (Michael might be a little shit when he wants to be, but he knows he doesn't deserve the Fields of Punishment. Actually, he'd say his death was pretty fucking heroic, if Hades asked him).

Then he realises he's not alone, that one of his hands is trapped in the solid, warm grip of a familiar, familiar figure with golden hair and blue eyes, and Michael has only physically met his dad once before but he's dropped by his dreams so many times with his fucking haikus and eyes full of love that there's no way Michael would mistake him for anyone else.

But Apollo doesn't go to the Underworld, Michael knows that, and that means he must not be in the Underworld, either.

Maybe he is actually in the infirmary at camp, and if Apollo's with him then that means he's not fighting Typhon, or Kronos, and either the war is over or there was never a fucking war in the first place and Michael had just been experiencing a really fucked-up dream for the past few years instead.

The pain in his body makes it pretty fucking clear that it's not the latter.

"The fuck're you doing here?" he slurs, not because he's unhappy that his dad is with him but because Apollo doesn't get to sit bedside vigils for them, only drops by in dreams when they need some reassurance from their dad – or when he wants to torture them with the shit he calls poetry, which is usually the same fucking thing.

Apollo – a four thousand year old fucking god – jumps a foot in the air when he speaks, as though he somehow hadn't noticed Michael was awake, and when his eyes focus on him Michael's heart drops out through his back and into the fucking floor.

Because Apollo looks fucking wrecked, eyes rimmed with red despite the fact he's a god and doesn't have blood vessels to burst through too much crying, and cheeks covered in glittering salt crystals and the shine of tears. "Michael," his dad says, his voice thick and shaking, and then Michael's being pulled into a tight, tight hug as though he'll disappear if he lets go. His body hurts at the pressure, but there's warmth wrapping around him and stifling the jagged edges of pain. "Michael," Apollo sobs again, desperate like he's the mortal and Michael is the god he's praying to.

That isn't right; none of this is fucking right.

Apollo hasn't answered the first question but that doesn't stop Michael asking another, because nothing adds up and he needs fucking answers. "The fuck happened?"

He hadn't known a god could cry so much. Apollo's shaking where he's wrapped around him, and Michael's quickly getting the feeling that he's missed something big.

Something bad.

It occurs to him that he's in the infirmary and hasn't seen any sign of his siblings, and dread pools in his gut because the last time he saw them half of them were half-dead and fucking Kronos and his army were descending on them.

"The titans were defeated," Apollo tells him, without pulling back in the slightest. Michael is left still staring at the ceiling of the infirmary – another thing that isn't fucking right, because when the infirmary has seriously injured patients the roof stays fucking open so his healer-siblings can better connect to their dad at the wheel of the sun.

Accelerated healing or not, Michael knows damn well he's classified as seriously injured right now.

"The war is over," his dad continues, voice shaking, and the war being over is supposed to be a good fucking thing but the way Apollo's acting has Michael worried. "You're safe, now." His voice breaks on you're, stumbles over it in a way that makes it stand out, and it easily translates to you – Michael – are safe even if that isn't what his dad meant by it.

Michael's heart is burrowing further and further into the floor beneath him, and the rest of his insides are following suit because there's a horror story lurking at the edges of his mind, of a glance back that didn't show him any siblings, of an infirmary without Will and Robyn scurrying around, armed with nectar and healing hymns and the Look of a healer that refuses to take any shit. Of a father that Michael has never doubted for a single moment loves them all gluing himself to his side, being there in his waking hours when he never visits camp in person.

It's not a question he wants to ask but the words are crawling up his throat unpleasantly, prying his lips open to escape, and it's not like Apollo is being particularly verbose right then.

"Where are they?" he asks. It was supposed to be a demand, but his voice cracks on they the same way his father's voice cracked on you're and it comes out a plea, begging his dad to tell him it's okay, he's just not thinking straight with his injuries right now and that he isn't really living a horror story right now, for all that his gut is churning with panic.

Apollo sobs again, a single, heart-wrenching sound, and when he raises his head to look Michael in the eye Michael wishes he hadn't, because he never knew that gods could look so broken and he never wanted to know that, either.

"Elysium," his father rasps, and the war might be over but Michael's nightmare isn't.

"Who?" he demands. Nathan, he knows, and he desperately clings to the strands of hope that it's just Nathan they're talking about even though he knows it's futile, fragile enough that the smallest of breezes will break it.

He's still not prepared when Apollo closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath like he's mortal and air is something he needs in order to live, before meeting his steadily. They're still watery as fuck, fresh tears spilling down his face with abandon as he says three words that make Michael scream.

"All of them."

Screaming doesn't help, but Michael can't stop, either. The sound is wordless, but there's a mantra of no no no no no running through his head on an endless loop and he thrashes as his dad holds him close, saying more words he can't hear through the roar of blood in his ears, because it can't be true, they can't be all dead.

Not Will, bright and sunny when he's not snapping at idiots for ignoring medical common sense, not little Kayla always running after him with a bow in hand, trying to get him to shoot with her some more. Not Joy, not Robyn, not Elias or Alice or Sally or Austin.

He can't have failed all of them.

Michael remembers the feel of the detonator in his hand, remembers pressing the button after barely checking, remembers the bridge as it exploded behind him, and then he's twisting in Apollo's tight grip, retching and retching and retching some more even though there's only bile to come up and barely any of that, either.

A warm hand runs shakily through his hair, a grip around his waist pulling him until his back is flush with an equally warm body, and fingers brush across his lips lightly, wiping away the mess. Michael hates it, hates himself, doesn't deserve his father's unending love when he killed them, but attempts to pull away, to push Apollo away, fail before they even begin and then he's screaming again, thrashing in his father's hold and aggravating his injuries except they don't fucking hurt.

"Michael." His name is spoken directly into his ear, Apollo's mouth close enough to brush the outer shell. The god's voice is sharp enough to freeze him, rigid in his father's hold as he waits for the damnation.

It doesn't come.

"You didn't kill them," his father tells him, and it has the weight of a promise. Tears Michael hadn't realised were flooding his own face stopped abruptly, cut off by the sheer shock of impossible words. He's pulled backwards gently, until Apollo is folded all the way around him with a hand on the back of his head and the faint brush of lips at his temple. "You didn't kill any of them," Apollo repeats, Truth pressing down on Michael's soul. "They were already dead," he says more softly, and fuck.

Michael hadn't looked for downed bodies in his glance back, just fleeing ones – and there had been none of those.

None of those because by the time he'd got Kronos semi-distracted and the chance to blow the bridge up to protect them, there was no-one left to fucking protect.

It's Michael's turn to sob, trying to push himself away from Apollo so he could wallow in grief and self-loathing – some fucking head counsellor he was, not able to protect even one sibling – but his dad didn't let him, bundling him up in his arms like he was a small child and burying his face in his hair.

"It's not your fault," he hears him murmur. "You did nothing wrong, Michael."

Michael can't believe him. How can ten dead siblings not be his fucking fault when he was supposed to keep them safe? Somewhere on that bridge he fucked up badly and his siblings had paid the fucking price while he was here, still alive and back at camp with his dad visiting him in person for the first time in his fucking life. How could it not be-

"I love you, Michael." His dad's unexpected words completely derail his thoughts. Apollo hadn't said those words to him in years, for all that he'd shown it through his dream visits over and over and over again. The actual words hadn't passed between them since Michael was nine, finally free from his shitty pre-camp life and learning that the guy in his dreams most nights was real and also his dad, who actually loved him unlike every other adult in his life. "I love you," he said again, mouth once again finding Michael's ear. "I'm so happy you're still alive."

That hurts, because Michael would rather be dead if it meant one of his siblings had survived instead. Fuck, he'd chosen to die, if it meant that any of them would fucking live.

It wasn't supposed to have turned out this way, all fucking backwards where the one that was supposed to die lived and the ones that were supposed to live fucking died.

"Why me?" he chokes, not even sure if he's asking why he survived or why Apollo's glad he did or if it's actually a third question he can't put his finger on.

"Because you're my beautiful child," Apollo says, and Michael isn't sure which question he's answering, and isn't quite sure he can believe the words, either. He certainly doesn't feel like it.

But his dad isn't letting go of him, instead presses another kiss to his temple and runs a hand through his hair. The motions are soothing even though it seems impossible that Michael could be anything other than agitated at minimum right now, and part of him remembers that despite current appearances, his father is a god and can do bullshit like that if he wants.

"Rest," Apollo coaxes. "You have a lot of healing left to do."

Michael wants to resist, wants to fight it because he doesn't deserve to heal and rest, not when everyone else is dead and for some Fates-forsaken reason he's the only one that isn't, but he is tiring and he doesn't know if it's because or in spite of his father's actions.

"I'll still be here when you wake up again," his father promises, intensely enough that Michael believes him even though it makes no fucking sense because Apollo never sticks around that long even in fucking dreams. His confusion – disbelief – must be obvious because he gets another light kiss to his temple. "You're all I have left," Apollo tells him, and Michael can hear the tears in his voice again, but also the determination, the words of the god of truth. "I won't – can't – lose you, too."

There's a sound like a roll of thunder in the distance as Michael finds himself settled back down properly in the infirmary bed, his father hunched over him and looking down at him with overflowing eyes. A hand brushes across his forehead and suddenly Michael's eyes refuse to stay open no matter how much he fights them, his vision blurring. "Sleep well," he hears Apollo murmur, and there's a feather-light kiss to his forehead this time. "I love you so, so much."

The familiar darkness of sleep chases him down and he barely hears the rest of his father's words.

"Thank you for living."

Thanks for reading!
Tsari