category: BtVS, multiple parts, song fic
timeframe: Post "Chosen"
characters: ensemble
warnings: character death
rating: Teen
summary: Connected vignettes set to various They Might Be Giants songs, leading to an ultimate conclusion.

“We can't be silent cause they might be giants and what are we gonna do unless they are?”

A band played between the three columns of the ancient arena, a swift-beated song, full of percussion and long, ululating notes. A trio of belly dancers undulated through the crowds beneath the Blue Mosque, while shop keepers shouted from their impromptu booths, proclaiming the virtues of their rugs, their chess sets, their pastries, and their tobacco. Bearded men examined expensive wares, their fingers sliding over glass beads clutched behind their backs. Teenagers giggled over cds, and an older woman calmed a crying child with candy.

Willow slipped through the crowds, her eyes flicking left and right, growing brighter at each new wonder.

She'd been traveling the world for more than a year now, but Istanbul after sunset in the first week of Ramadan was like nothing she'd ever seen before.

She paused beside a dingy blanket laid out on the pavement and crouched to take a better look at a small strand of hematite worry beads. She brushed a single bead with her fingertips. One per worry. She knew plenty of people with more than enough worries for the loop of beads.

“Ah, pretty lady.” The salesman, a somewhat bedraggled Turk wearing a neatly trimmed goatee of more salt than pepper, smiled at her. “How may I best help you spend your money?”

Willow smiled in return. “I'm only looking.”

“Then look all you like. Looking is free.” He grinned wider now, flashing his hand over the blanket. “No pressure to buy.”

“Thank you.” Willow let her eyes linger for a moment longer, then stood. “They're very nice. I will stop back on my way home.”

Some of the light left the salesman's eyes, but he did not allow his grin to falter. “Of course, pretty lady. I look forward to your return.”

She nodded slightly to him, then continued down the long corridor of the street market. Above her, bats dove back and forth between the seven minarets of the mosque. A young boy nearly tripped her with a top on a long string, smirking devilishly when she stumbled. “Easy. See?” He rewound the top, then tossed it again to the ground. “I teach you, lady?”

“No, thank you.” She stepped over the long string, watching as the green and gold top whirled over the cracked sidewalk.

“That's not like you.” The voice came from behind her, and she squeaked slightly at the familiar sound. She spun, her skirts flaring up then drifting back down across her legs.

“Oz!”

He smiled a little sadly at her. “Hi, Willow.”

She grabbed him into a hug, then released him. “Oh, goddess, Oz, what are you doing here? How have you been? What do you mean, that's not like me?”

“Willow, turning down learning?” He nodded to the boy, who had stopped paying attention once it became obvious that Willow was not going to buy one of his toys. “Not something I thought I'd see.”

Willow blushed slightly. “He only wanted to sell me things, and I don't have much money left, and I'm leaving tomorrow anyway, and oh my god, Oz, I can't believe you're here! You have to tell me everything you've been doing, and I have to tell you everything I've been doing, and . . . .” She took a deep breath. “It's good to see you.”

Oz nodded again. “Willow-babble. I missed that.” He half-turned, offering her his hand. She took it, and he silently lead them through the tiny, shifting gaps of the crowd to an open air cafe on the far end of the bazaar. He lead her to a table, and before Willow had quite sat down, a young woman had placed a drink in front of each of them. Willow watched Oz sip his, an amber tea in a small, ornately patterned glass, and lifted hers, a frothy white concoction that had developed a fine skin over the top. It was sweet, and it burned her tongue.

She swallowed, closing her eyes. “Mm.” She opened them again and saw Oz watching her with his faint smile. “What is it?”

“Salep.”

“It's good.” She leaned forward, taking his hand. “This is amazing, Oz. What have you been up to? Where are you staying?” He regarded her silently for a long moment, and Willow realized there was something dark behind his eyes. “What's wrong?”

Oz took another sip of his tea. “I've missed you, Willow.” His eyes never left hers. “But I'm not happy to see you.”

Willow flinched backward. Over his shoulder, she saw a group of performing dervishes start to slowly rotate. “Why-why not?”

Oz looked down. He slid his cup and saucer to one side. When he looked back up, he wore a melancholy expression.

“Oz?”

He told her.