Wesley Wyndham-Price carefully checked the set up of his altar and ran over
his petition in his mind one last time.  He didn't generally put much stock in the Wiccan rituals - at least, not in ones done without the power of a Hellmouth to back them up - but they had tried nearly everything else.

They needed help in this latest battle with Wolfram & Hart.  It had gotten vicious and, on the part of the firm, bloody.  People had died, Cordelia narrowly escaping that fate.  Any assistance at all was, at that point, desperately needed, so Wesley had begun looking into possible spells and rituals.  For this kind of business, he had discovered, most were dangerous. The last thing they needed was an added filip of danger, so Wesley had chosen the safest approach, the Wiccan method.  He had done extensive preparation and research, all the while hoping that his own lack of religion wouldn't matter.

He had found, in his reading, recommendations that he select a particular pantheon of gods and goddesses and pray to the most appropriate one, as a way of focussing and aiming the request.  More research - Wesley had eventually decided on the Greek pantheon.  Specificially, Ares.  He was the god one petitioned for help in battle, and that was precisely what they needed.

His readings told him that the god was capricious - something that he felt, for one reason or another, was inherently obvious - and to be approached with the utmost care and respect.  The authors, he had noticed more than once, spoke as if they thought he were real.  How odd.  Of course, care and respect never hurt anyone, so he had worked them into his request.

He was up to that stage in the ritual now - he had created the sacred space, cast the magick circle, invoked the quarters and requested the help of the elements.  Time now to call to Ares.  Repressing a sense of "Oh, this is ridiculous" - the negativity would spoil his efforts - Wesley began to speak.

"Ares, wise God of War, I call upon you now in this time of greatest need. We appeal for guidance from the great God of Warriors to lead us to all-important victory -"

"Suck up."

The voice came from behind him.  Wesley choked on the rest of his words, spinning round as best he could in his kneeling position to find out who the speaker was

Upon finding himself face-to-groin with the stranger, he scrambled backwards frantically, crashing into and knocking over his altar.  He lost his balance, sprawled backwards, and looked up.

And up.

The interloper was in supple black leather, bearded face framed with a lion's mane of black hair.  His arms were folded imposingly across his broad chest, and his dark eyes looked down at Wesley in amusement.  Wesley, blinking up at him, was nearly smothered with a sense of deja vu.

"Of course," the man continued, "I like that in a petitioner."  He shook his head with a sudden warm smile. "Look at you.  You really haven't changed that much."

Realization began to slice through the cloud of deja vu.  He knew who this was. But it couldn't be.  It was ridiculous.  Impossible!

And yet - he was certain.  He just *knew*, somehow.

"A - Ares?" Wesley ventured, voice tense and trembling.

The warmth disappeared, replaced by mild irritation.

"You rang, didn't you?" Ares retorted.

"It . . . not possible," Wesley stuttered.  "Mythology . . . !"  But even as he denied it, he accepted it.  He fell silent and stared up at the god, gripped with an unequivocal sense of *knowing*.  He *knew* this being. He had never seen Ares before in his life, but . . .

"In *this* life," Ares said suddenly.

"I - beg pardon?"

"You've never seen me before in this life," Ares clarified.  Or seemed to think he was, at any rate.  He gestured and suddenly Wesley was on his feet, the altar restored and the small fire begun by the candles quenched before he could become aware of its existence.

Disoriented, Wesley nonetheless did his best to hold his ground.  "I - I'm afraid I don't understand."  The Greek God of War, past lives, magick gone beyond his control - even for someone who specialized in the supernatural, it was all a bit much.

Ares cocked his head slightly, looking amused again.  "I suppose that you think your decision to pray to *me* was a conscious, intellectual one."

Wesley's jaw set stubbornly, reacting to the challenge in the god's words. "I did my research quite carefully, I assure you."

Ares arched an eyebrow.  He stepped closer to Wesley, shrinking the distance between them to a couple of feet. Wesley, unnerved, resisted the urge to step back and give Ares a psychological advantage.

"And your studies just happened to lead you to the Greek pantheon?  Why not the Roman, or the Nordic?  Am I getting my point across here?"

Wesley swallowed hard.  "You think I subconsciously chose to pray to you for reasons you haven't seen fit to explain just yet."  His voice strengthened. "Now do you care to make yourself clear or shall we continue to muddle along without your help?" he demanded.  Had he just used that tone with a god? *This* god?  So much for care and respect.

Ares's eyes darkened with rage.  "If you were anyone else, I would kill you for that!" he spat harshly.

Wesley's frustration deflated.  "But who *am* I?" he asked softly.  "And why do I know you so . . ."  intimately?  ". . . well?"  He should have been too wary to speak to Ares like he just had.  But he hadn't been.  He'd actually felt almost - safe. Why?

Ares's anger dissipated almost as quickly as it had gathered. "So you do feel it."  He had been worried for a moment.  After all the long-term effort he had put into leading Wesley to him, if it hadn't worked, or he had been wrong (there was a first time for everything, after all) . . . a god couldn't just appear to someone these days.  Mortals had gotten too skeptical and hardbitten.  The experience of a god materializing out of nowhere would probably kill them with the shock.  You had to lead them to you carefully, make them think it was their idea.  He had orchestrated everything so carefully - getting Wesley fired (that Faith girl had been a joy to play with, though Buffy's rebellion had been a bit of a surprise), bringing him back to Los Angeles, setting things up Just So so that Angel would hire him, then carefully pitting Angel Investigations and Wolfram & Hart against each other (he hated that damned firm - they prayed to him all right, but it was purely token, a way of making sure they had all their bases covered.  For such a supernaturally knowledgeable bunch, they seemed to have no idea that nothng insulted a god more.).  After that, he'd simply given Wesley a nudge in the proper direction by planting the idea of a spell in his rather susceptible mind.  And forget all that nonsense about his subconsciousness. It had been Wesley's soul that brought him unerringly down the right path.

"Yes," Wesley whispered, gray eyes searching the god's face, "I do."

"Good," Ares murmured.  Then, abruptly, he rubbed his hands together and said briskly, "Now."  He mimed plucking spectacles off his face and Wesley's glasses disappeared.  Wesley automatically blinked to adjust his vision, only to find that he could see perfectly clearly.  Better, in fact, than with his glasses.

"Better," Ares approved.  He took a step forward, closing the remaining space, and pressed two fingertips to Wesley's temples, resting his palms lightly along the sides of Wesley's face.  Ares's natural scent and the scent of leather filled the mortal's senses.  Ares was slightly taller than he - part of Wesley's mind took note of this, as he rarely met men noticibly taller than him, and he wondered if it was real or an optical illusion forged by the god.

Then his mind quieted as Ares's eyes locked with his, remaining thoughts retreating to their orderly little cubbyholes, till his mind was open and pleasantly blank.

"Remember," Ares breathed, and Wesley couldn't have looked away from those black eyes if he had tried.

Trying never occurred to him, though, as his surroundings fell away and he was bombarded by images:

A small blonde gripping a walking stick, friendly and cheerful, though capable of becoming an imposing presence if need be.  A tall brunette brandishing a circular weapon (a chakram, he knew somehow), blue eyes flashing ice.  Gabrielle, whom he had loved unrequitedly, and Xena, with a darkness you respected if you knew what was good for you, but whom he would have respected anyway.

Himself in homemade armor and a ridiculous helmet.  Tripping over rocks, roots, his own feet, absolutely nothing.  Having the best of intentions, but never quite managing to see them through.  Being trusted by Xena with a little job now and again anyway.

This past life flashed through him and he became aware of a name: Joxer.  (In the present, Wesley tried the name out silently several times and decided he liked it.)

The images began to slow and become accompanied with sounds and stories and his - Joxer's - own thoughts . . . 

Part 2

"Remember," Ares breathed, and Wesley couldn't have looked away from those black eyes if he had tried.

Trying never occurred to him, though, as his surroundings fell away and he was bombarded by images:

A small blonde gripping a walking stick, friendly and cheerful, though capable of becoming an imposing presence if need be.  A tall brunette brandishing a circular weapon (a chakram, he knew somehow), blue eyes flashing ice.  Gabrielle, whom he had loved unrequitedly, and Xena, with a darkness you respected if you knew what was good for you, but whom he would have respected anyway.

Himself in homemade armor and a ridiculous helmet.  Tripping over rocks, roots, his own feet, absolutely nothing.  Having the best of intentions, but never quite managing to see them through.  Being trusted by Xena with a little job now and again anyway.

This past life flashed through him and he became aware of a name: Joxer.  (In the present, Wesley tried the name out silently several times and decided he liked it.)

The images began to slow and become accompanied with sounds and stories and his - Joxer's - own thoughts . . .

~~~

Joxer slumped disconsolately against a tree, settling himself in for some serious thinking.

Praying to Ares was starting to get a little impossible.  And, since he was a warrior, Ares was his god.  And you were supposed to pray to your god.  It was the way things were done.  Especially if your god was as prone to losing his temper as Ares was.  It wouldn't be a very good idea to not pray and end up making him mad.

But - lately he couldn't think about Ares without thinking about . . . other stuff.  Stuff like the way Ares's leather clothing neatly molded to his body, or his thick mane of black curls, or the way his full lips always looked just-kissed . . .

Joxer shook his head.  He was here to do some serious thinking, not daydreaming.  Which was exactly his problem.  Before, praying to Ares hadn't been a problem because he hadn't known what the god *looked* like.  Now, though, those daydreams tended to invade his prayers.  He couldn't think about his prayers without thinking about that body, and what he wanted to do with it.  And to it.  He tried hard not to, but the harder Joxer tried not to think about things, the more he thought about them.  It just wasn't the kind of thing he wanted to broadcast to Ares.

These thoughts chased themselves around exhaustively in Joxer's mind, and they were absolutely no help in deciding the issue one way or the other.  To pray or not to pray, this was the question.  Either way, he risked offending Ares.

"Not good," Joxer chanted to himself, "not good, not good, not gyah!" he finished in eloquent alarm.  It had suddenly occurred to him that the object of his thoughts was standing across the grove from him, which he had most definitely not been doing a couple of seconds ago.

Despite the fact that Joxer was experiencing the kind of shock that generally set his muscles into useless spasms, he managed to scramble to his feet and stay there, clinging to the tree for support.

"Ares!" he blurted.  "Um . . . hi!  This is weird, because I was just thin -" < No, don't say *that*, Joxer! >  " - *not* thinking about you.  At all!"  < Oh, *nice* save.  That's okay, think quick, you can still get out of this! > "Uh, well, well that isn't to say that I don't *not* think of you.  'Cause I'm a warrior and you're my god so I *should* think of you of . . . course . . ."  Joxer trailed off as he realized something: Ares should be interrupting him or incinerating him or something.  It wasn't his style to stand there and stay silent and look at him like . . . like . . .

Thought fled Joxer's mind as he realized exactly *how* the god was looking at him.

And it ran further as Ares began to approach him.  Not in his normal, you-wouldn't-*dare*-fuck-with-me stride, but in a slow, sinuous manner that emphasized the way his body moved under the black leather.

Joxer's entire body sprang to emphatic attention as he watched this, wide-eyed,  wondering if Ares was moving like *that* on purpose or if his own imagination had snapped and gone into hysterical overdrive.  He hadplenty of time to ponder it, as Ares was taking his sweet time crossing the grove, his eyes locked on Joxer's face.

Joxer's body was tingling all over by the time the god was close enough for him to really look into those eyes, and the expression in them confirmed that, yes, Ares was *definitely* moving like that on purpose.  And once he met Ares's unwavering gaze, he couldn't look away.

Ares moved closer and closer at that same steady pace, till he was so close that Joxer could smell the scents of leather and of Ares himself, till Joxer's breathing was labored and he was so hard it almost hurt, till it seemed as though he actually intended to walk directly *through* Joxer - then he stopped, a few small inches away.  So close that Joxer could feel the heat radiating from Ares's body, even through the layers he wore.

Ares raised a hand and ran it leisurely up Joxer's arm and shoulder, not touching but so close it *felt* like touching.  The he caressed the air right next to Joxer's face, hand rising to send Joxer's helmet tumbling to the ground, still not touching but burning Joxer's skin with the heat of his palm.  Joxer wanted to move, to close the tiny distance between them, but he couldn't seem to move or speak, though not through the interference of any spells.  He simply couldn't, and he remained completely still as Ares lowered his hand, black eyes still holding Joxer's gaze tightly in place.

The first kiss was so feather-light that it took several seconds of Joxer to determine that he really had felt those lips on his, not just the warmth of them passing by.  The second kiss was firm and lingering, and it disabled Joxer's brain to such a degree that he didn't notice the nearly a minute later than Ares had closed the distance between them, molding his body tightly against Joxer's.  And he didn't notice at all that his armor had disappeared until it reappeared some time later.

Ares looked into his eyes for a last moment before kissing Joxer deeply.  The hot tongue explored his mouth thoroughly, and Joxer would have fallen to the ground if his body hadn't been pinned between Ares and the tree.

He whimpered faintly in protest when Ares ended the kiss, but changed his mind when the god nipped gently at his earlobe.  Ares tilted Joxer's head back and began to make his leisurely way across Joxer's throat, licking and suckling and lightly biting the tender skin.  At some point, Joxer's hands made their way up into the silky black curls, stroking and tugging gently, then less gently as the pressure in his body built quickly under Ares's expert touch until Joxer was sure that he was going to either come or explode.

Ares reached the other side of his neck and bit down hard, and Joxer yelped even as his overwrought nerves misinterpreted the pain as a burst of pleasure.  Ares raised his head and shook it, disentangling Joxer's hands from his hair.  He cupped Joxer's face in his hands and kissed him once more.  Then, with a combination of his trademark smirk and something Joxer couldn't understand, Ares stepped back and vanished, leaving Joxer to gape uncomprehendingly at the place where he had been standing.

**********

Over the past few days, Joxer had - almost - convinced himself that the whole thing had been a dream. That he'd just dozed off under that tree.  It had been a warm day, he'd been tired . . . besides, what would Ares want with *him* when there were hundreds of way better-looking warriors to choose from?  It was - what was that word Gabby liked? - preposterous.

The only thing that kept him from being wholly convinced was the small matter of the row of kiss-induced bruises across his trhoat, like a string of beads, with the bite mark acting as the clasp.  But when he ran into Xena and Gabrielle several nights later, Gabby unwittingly gave him the perfect excuse.

He spotted them in the square of the tiny village he'd wandered into, and hastened over to them.  An adventure with them would be exactly what he needed to clear his mind and get it back on the aspect of war he was supposed to be concerned about.  Namely, the fighting, rather than the god.

"Hi, Gabby!" he called cheerfully. "Hi, Xena!"

The women exchanged the look they seemed to reserve especially for his approach.

"Hello, Joxer," Xena replied flatly.  /Joxer missed her resigned tone completely, but Wesley, watching, heard it and winced.\

"So," Joxer continued enthusastically, "What're we doing today?  Freeing a kidnapped princess? Fighting a battle?  Giving ol' Ares what-for?"  He liked that idea.  Fighting Ares - an actual encounter - would definitely that he had made the whole thing up so he could move on with his life.

Xena and Gabrielle exchanged another look, this one amused.  "I'm getting a birthday present for my suister," Gabrielle explained.  "This is one of the only places that sells the cloth she likes."

Joxer deflated.  "Oh."

Gabrielle took pity on him. "But you never know."

Joxer brightened again, drawing himself up into his best Joxer the Mighty stance and openeing his mouth to speak, but Gabby beat him to it.

"Wow," she said, eyes on Joxer's neck.  "Lookslike Meg was pretty happy to see you."

Joxer blinked.  Skipped a beat. Heard himself say,

"Yeah, I should do my best to see her sooner next time.  Of course, you know how it is, righting wrongs, singing songs, never knowing when or if you'll see your loved ones again -"

"Oh, there's the vendor," Gabrielle interrupted, hurrying over to a stand stacked with cloth.

**********

Within a week, Joxer had completely convinced himself that he had indeed gotten the marks, now almost faded away, from Meg - conveniently fogetting the fact that he ahdn't seen her in nearly six months.  The time that had passed made it easier to believe that the whole thing had been only an extraordinarily vivid dream.  After all, it was hardly the first time he had fallen asleep thinking and carried his thoughts into his dreams.

It was all settled then.  A dream.

How depressing.

 TBC