A/N: Felicity POV. Special thanks to the magnificent JWAB for being so fucking brilliant.


Things Found in Books

"You're not being terribly stealthy," I quietly accuse my hovering shadow without turning away from the bookshelf. I slide the book back into its place and reach for another.

"I didn't realize a date required bringing along my A-game," Oliver replies.

He comes up behind me and buries his nose in my neck. I can smell the lingering scent of sushi on him, and I close my eyes and sigh because it's hard not to be tempted into displays of public affection by those thighs and those arms and that... other impressive bit of Oliver he's gently thrusting into me.

"Oliver," I scold. "Footsie under the table is one thing. This, on the other hand."

"What do you want me to do with my other hand?"

"Go find a book and amuse yourself for a little while," I say, swatting him away before I completely lose my head. Jesus, there are times he's really very distracting.

"I am amusing myself," he teases back, undeterred from his ministrations.

"This is the children's section," I remind him. "You'll scare the kids if you don't cut it out."

Oliver sighs dejectedly and steps away, my back suddenly cold without the furnace that is him chugging away pressed against it.

"What do you want me to do?" he whispers, his voice tight with frustration. "Just walk away and leave you here defenseless?"

"Oliver," I patiently say. "This is a bookstore. While nothing in life is certain, I think it's safe to assume I'll be able to browse unmolested for twenty minutes or so."

His lush bottom lip sticks out in a childish pout, and I have to resist the urge to kiss it. He'll still taste like wasabi, I bet. And maybe just a little bit of jasmine tea lingers on his tongue.

"I'm not leaving you," he finally insists.

I open my mouth to remind him that I didn't just sit around the house, pining for his return, when he left. Again. But I close it and take a deep breathe so I don't say something I will regret because all it will do is hurt him.

Digg and I often stopped by here after a long day at the office while Oliver was away. There was plenty to do at the mansion, but neither one of us was ever in a hurry to get back to its hulking emptiness. We never talked about why we were stalling, Digg and I, but I'd get a tea, cradling the warm cup in my hands while I flipped through books about pregnancy and babies. With Oliver gone, I was always cold, and there's a hushed busyness in the store that's oddly soothing, and I always knew Digg was close by, but not so close that I felt rushed or smothered.

"Oliver," I say, resting my hand on his chest. "I just want to get a book for Bean, all right."

"Bean?" he asks.

"Well," I stammer, blushing. "We can't keep calling the poor little thing it, now can we? It's not Bean's fault we don't know whether he or she is a boy or a girl."

"You do realize it won't be born able to read, right?" he asks, looking half-amused and half-annoyed. "It's not like you have to find a book today."

"You're supposed to read to babies," I say, turning back to the shelf of Newbury Award winners.

I love Oliver, and I love our work, and I love that I'm able to help Walter. But I spend all day scheduling and organizing at Queen Consolidated, coordinating disparate agendas and avoiding possible conflicts and smoothing ruffled feathers and ensuring everything is as uneventful as possible for a multi-billion dollar international corporation. At the house, I'm usually acting as a buffer between Oliver and Roy and I'm working out with Digg and I'm trying to be with Oliver. I don't think asking for a half hour for myself to leisurely look at books is too much.

"You're supposed to read even before babies are born. They can't see very well, and not only is the sound of someone reading soothing, but it helps them bond to their caretakers. Digg has such a distinctive voice. I bet Bean will love listening to him read."

"Don't you think you're going a little overboard?" Oliver asks.

"And it's a fact," I continue, ignoring his snide comment. "There are some languages, if you don't hear them within the first week of life, you will never completely master. There's a part of the brain that differentiates unique sounds, but only for a very short time. It's fascinating, actually. Make sure you talk to Bean a lot right away, in all the languages you know. It's too bad I only speak very poor Spanish. I won't be any help in that department."

Oliver sighs and once again reaches for me and pulls me back into his chest. "You can help me in a certain department," he flirts.

"Oliver," I say with a sigh.

"You're killing me," he whispers into my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Let's go home and not talk about Digg's baby."

"Just a little while longer," I say. "I would really like to do this. Why don't you go and look at books."

"I have a book," he sulks.

"Oliver, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but as lovely as The Odyssey is, there might be one or two others you haven't read yet. Go find a copy of The Art of War and a comfy chair. I won't be too long."

"The Art of War?"

"Sun Tzo. Look in philosophy." I point in the general direction. "It's not too far. Just over that way. I'm sure you'll find it fascinating."

Oliver sighs again and stomps off in the wrong direction, but I don't correct him. I just let him go. Maybe he'll get a coffee. Maybe he'll ask someone for help. Maybe he's just going to go and guard the door and glare at everyone who walks in until I decide which book to bring home for Bean.

There's always The Story of Ferdinand. I reach for the bright red cover with the simple but lovely ink drawings. It seems unlikely that little Bean will be allowed a quiet, contemplative life, the human equivalent of sitting under the tree and smelling the flowers, but hope springs eternal. It's more likely Bean will be a Wild Thing. I smile and pick up a copy and smooth my hand over the familiar illustration of King Max. Only I want to get this one for Oliver. Something tells me Mrs. Queen didn't spend a lot of time reading to Oliver when he was little. Maybe he'll be less grumpy about me banishing him if I read to him tonight.

The image of naked Oliver in our enormous bed, coupled with the famous line, "I'll eat you up, I love you so," makes me blush and clear my throat and look around to see if my dirty thoughts have contaminated any nearby innocent children.

Oliver loving me so is definitely not the problem. He has mastered that particular skill-set and then some. I'm probably crazy for thinking there's something wrong with my super-hot boyfriend who can't keep his hands off of me. But the problem is that sometimes I wonder if he does the amazing things he does with his tongue and his fingers and his... other impressive part... so he doesn't have to talk or answer questions or think. He's always called me "his" Felicity. But maybe he means it more than just my name. Maybe he thinks, like my name suggests, that I'm his path to happiness.

I wonder sometimes if he's with me as a way to avoid the ghosts and the skeletons and all the doubts and fears.

I still don't know what happened that made him come back to Starling City without Thea. I was expecting him to have to drag her home, kicking and screaming. I was braced for slammed doors and shouting, combined with an unhealthy dose of patented Queen stony silences and looks that kill. But without Thea to fight with, it's just Oliver being silent and glaring at nothing.

I pull Charlotte's Web from the shelf. Maybe this is the one I should get for Bean today. A story about love and friendship. A story about loyalty that goes beyond anything else, even self-preservation. After all, Charlotte doesn't get to go home. She's the one who makes the barn safe for Wilbur, the hero who saves his life even though she doesn't get any of the credit for it, and in the end, she's also denied the fruits of her labors: she doesn't get to see Wilbur live long enough to miraculously witness the first snow because her heroism comes at the price of her own life.

Not for the first time, I wonder if Oliver is capable of coming home. Really and truly coming home. He's a man of action who seems lost without a foe to fight or evil to vanquish. What happens when Oliver hangs up the mask and bow? Sun Tzu said "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting." But that is not Oliver's style. Oliver is a lover, yes. God, a really good one. But he's a fighter too.

Can he stop? Or is fighting an addiction too? Does he know how to quit, or will he fight until he's stopped? Until he can't anymore because he's dead? Will he ever sit under the trees and be happy just smelling the flowers?

Even though I don't really feel it, I decide to run with optimism and take Ferdinand for Bean along with Where the Wild Things Are for Oliver. Maybe, after sailing through days and weeks and almost over a year, he just wants to be where someone loves him best of all and find supper waiting. I also tuck Charlotte's Web under my arm and wander out of the children's section in search of Oliver.

He is not in the philosophy section. He is not standing guard over the door, making everyone nervous when they walk in. He is not drinking coffee in the cafe. I'm on the verge of texting him when I almost trip over his legs. Before I can fall, he's reached up and steadying me with a strong, warm hand.

"What are you doing?" I ask after I'm certain I'm not going to fall on my face. He's stretched out, his back resting against a shelf in a way that can't actually be comfortable.

"Reading," he says, holding up a cheap paperback copy of The Odyssey, the kind they force upon high school students.

"If it's not broken?" I tease even though part of me suddenly wants to cry because Oliver, when faced with an entire store full of books, can't seem to stop himself from returning to the only one he knows. Like everything else, Oliver is all or nothing. He's even addicted to a book and the things he found inside it.

"This is a little bit different than mine," he says. I sit down on the floor next to him and ease the book out of his hands, carefully marking his place with my finger. "I can't decide if I like it or not. That it's familiar but not entirely recognizable."

Yes. That.

I know that feeling all too well.

I keep my gaze on the book even though I couldn't care less who translated this edition or when. I want his words to mean something else. Something more. I want him to talk to me, to tell me what he's thinking and why he left her there without a fight. I want him to explain why he's been home but refuses to go back to Queen Consolidated. Why he barely even leaves the house anymore. Why he's still Oliver, the Oliver I know and love, but parts of him aren't entirely recognizable anymore.

"Oliver," I begin.

"What'd you decide to get?" he interrupts, reaching for the books. "I haven't read any of these."

"They're good," I say. "Maybe we can read them before I give them to Digg. I'm sure Bean won't mind sharing."

"Is it really the size of a bean?" he quietly asks, tracing Charlotte's web with the tip of his finger.

"Not anymore," I say. "It's insane really, how fast Bean is growing. I just started thinking of Bean as, well, Bean, when he or she was that size. It kind of stuck."

Oliver shrugs. "It's as good a name as any, I suppose. You're right - the kid can't stay it."

"Oliver," I say again.

"Let's just go home," he pleads, closing his eyes and leaning his head against my shoulder. "Please, Felicity. I just." He sighs. "Let's go home and open a bottle of wine and soak in the tub and go to bed. You can read to me, and I'll make love to you, and we'll go to sleep. Let's do that."

Another silent night then.

"Sure," I say, kissing the top of his head. "We can absolutely do that."

He springs to his feet, the movement graceful and ridiculously fast if anyone had been looking. But we're alone in the quiet aisle in the store, and he helps me to my feet.

He reaches for the paperback, but I add it to my stack of books.

"My treat," I tell him.