Apollo took one hand in each of his, feeling the weight in each palm. Not just the physical weight, but the matter of them, the mettle. They were warm hands, and he took more time than he needed, his long fingers extending up along her wrists, and then stroking down her palms till her fingers curled against his. He lifted her hand to his mouth, leaning closer still, and pressed his lips against the swollen, bruised knuckles. Beneath his lips, her hand began to repair, and slowly he shifted his mouth from one knuckle to the next, till her hand felt whole and pure, till his mouth felt like he wanted to kiss the delicate skin on her wrist, the inside of her elbow, her shoulder, her mouth. "That's how it works," his voice was a little husky, as he reached for her second hand. "Shall I keep going?"