Crow.

There are forty-three muscles in a human's face. 

Fourty three facial muscles mean endless opportunities to react in the full human spectrum of emotions. 

But as you sat in a deserted Italian restaurant in a restaurant (you were pretty sure sister Wanda had a money laundering thing going on). 

With it’s eerily quiet main room, minus your waiter/bartender, the chef in the back and the one and only alpha and head of the FBI, Agnes O’Connor. 

Or as it turned out, via a trade deal, your new mate. 

You watched patiently for one of those 43 muscles to move.

You were staring at the esteemed retired homicide detective, turned FBI director in her ‘nice’ flannel, sitting across from you.

Like she was a nature documentary on mammal anomalies. 

The flannel-wearing alpha, which you were still trying to figure out if you were offended by the type of clothing. 

Had planned this evening. 

With its candlelit dinner, it was awkward. It felt like some kind of play you two were putting on. 

Something Agnes must have read in a ’50s Omega magazine on the etiquette of courting. 

You could smell her pheromones from across the table. Agnes smelled like leather and pine, something warm too, was that…aftershave?

Agnes was underdressed or looked like she’d come from work, or moonlighting a lumberjacks, that is. 

You stared at the alpha, not moving, unblinking. 

Neither of you were twitching, smiling, or making the other at ease .

No, it was this dead stare into each other's eyes.

The two of you weren’t normal, that much was abundantly clear. 

Because out of 43 facial muscles. Both of you were freaks enough that not a single twinge gave away your thoughts. 

Not until you unceremoniously blurted out;

“This isn’t going to work.” It’s not rude, just the truth as you know it. 

Agnes just watches you, equally interested in the study of you. 

 The jukebox in the corner continues to play softly to attempt to lure you both into some kind of mood. 

Agnes doesn’t respond as you’d expected. She doesn’t respond at all at first. 

And you wait, watching how she doesn’t blink or wince. Doesn’t hesitate or react; she’s a calculated animal, smarter than you might have originally given a fed enough credit for. Or a butch omega in a nice flannel packing two weapons on her that weren’t her mouth.

Agnes moves slowly, but with such ease, arm stretching out, as she lifts the wine. She pours yours first, and you wonder if she’s been coached on how to make nice with a mate. Or if she does this for every one of her secretaries before she rutted into their panties. 

Agnes's hair is neatly in a ponytail as she lets her shoulders fall just a bit before responding. 

“I don’t see why not? You are an unmated omega-” 

“Nicknamed the Bone Doctor.” You curl your lip just enough to hold the name for emphasis. 

Agnes doesn’t react still. Like this is a fact of life, not a warning label.

“I’ve seen the bodies.” She says evenly.

“You mean the news?” You arch an eyebrow and Agnes lips curl just enough at the corner. Sorta like her white napkin in her lap does at the ends. 

“No, the bodies, you’re smart. You’ve stumped all my detectives; they only know you by your brutality. No mistakes, so clean that forensics and the examiners are afraid.” She tilts her head to the side just enough and you try not to fall pray to false niceties. 

But it’s not easy with her bushy eyebrows and big praise. She’s pouring her own wine, not looking at you. You wonder if she has to remember to appear human as you do. 

Don’t stare too much, remember to breathe, ask others questions about themselves - seem normal as your mother taught you. 

You try a smile, but it feels like a string in your cheeks. 

“You know most dates don’t tell me I kill well.”

Agnes sticks her finger up as she puts the bottle down. 

“No, not kill - mutalate. You make it into a sort of grotesque art form. You and a surgeon know too much about the human anatomy to call it mere killings. You don’t need me to say that - but I figure we should get that out of the way. I know your work.” Agnes picks up her own wine glass and takes a sip. 

You wait for her to enjoy the drink, or wince at the drink - still nothing. 

American Psycho over there just swallows.

“Are you a psychopath, a narcissist, or on some painkillers?” You ask and Agnes lifts her eyebrows just a bit - it feels fake. 

“No, I’m your mate. I match you, don’t you see it?”

You can’t make that equation make sense, and you narrow your eyes at her. 

The breadsticks in front of you aren’t hard enough, but you’d like to throw a roll at her face. 

“You don’t believe that, this is business to you. You and I marry and mate and then what? You clear my name, make pups, hold something over my business and sister? What is this? What’s in it for you?” You're picking up speed, irritation coming clear and now Agnes is grinning. 

“You think I’m manipulating? I was honest, I want you. You’re just as sick as me.” The head of the FBI says like it’s on your dating profile or something. 

“Director?” You use her title to remind her that she’s on the other side of the badge. Not a mafia boss like you.

Agnes sets down her wine glass.

“You think I’m trying to do something dirty - but I’m not. I want a partner who isn’t afraid of the gore of this town. I want someone to stand next to me that is an equal-”

“Go date another detective!” You raise your voice, but it still doesn’t shake the butch alpha.

So interesting how she’s not easily pushed.  

“Boring, rule following, or dirty and predictable. You were counting how many breaths in a minute I was giving to see if I’d taken pills before coming here. You say for the last thirty minutes of this date, not staring into me like you could see my soul. 

“I don’t believe in a soul.” You roll your eyes, but Agnes leans forward, and it catches you - fuck it does. 

“Yes, you do. You do, and you are bored playing with common barn mice. I could have asked for money or power or any other pebian thing from your sister. I don’t want any of it. I want you. I want the Bone Doctor, the brains, the surgeon, the omega, the woman who would rather slice without gloves but still leaves zero fingerprints. I want love that is not afraid of ugliness.” Agnes says it all like it’s a blood letting, and now that she’s clean, she can rest back in her chair.

Her eyes flick to the kitchen door as the waiter comes out with two plates. 

You don’t stop staring at the FBI head. 

The plate is set down with a small clank, and the white tablecloth isn’t big enough to swallow you as you stare at this alpha. 

The salad is put down in front of you both as a starter and the alpha breaks eye contant to nod at the waiter who walks away without a peep. 

When the door swings close once more Agnes looks back at you.

“What is this?” Your voice is monotone.

“Salad,” she takes it literally, and something about that bothers you.

“What is this?” You repeat and blink slowly at her like she’s the idiot now. 

“You’re not hungry? I heard you put four on the slab today alone,” Agnes picks up her form a little too brutally to be considered table manners as she points to your plate. 

“Why am I at an Italian restaurant on a Friday night with you?” You spell it out and realize Agnes is dancing an alpha way. But it’s romance just as it’s like war, and that confuses you further. 

“It’s a date, I figure we’ll marry as soon as you decide I’m a worthy adversary.” She says, then takes a stab at the salad. 

You swallow and push your chair back, this makes Agnes stop her attack on the lettuce to look up.

“Where are you going?”

“This isn’t going to work.” You say again and Agnes's eyebrows furrow in upset, but it’s still not human enough. 

“I don’t understand?”

You stand and push your chair in and now the FBI head is pushing her own chair out to stop you. 

“I’m not able to love the way you need.” You say and hold the top of the chair like it’s giving you strength to stand up. 

Pine and leather is very alluring, it would seem, and Agnes stands up and you see her tucked in flannel and leather belt, she’d make a cute cowboy. 

“You don’t know me, or what I need yet, that’s why we’re pretending to enjoy salad on a Friday night.” 

“You could have anyone, why pretend to enjoy it?” You take the wrong words to twist them, and now Agnes is moving closer to you.

“I don’t enjoy lettuce and red wine, I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy the company.” She insists and you almost find it charming again. You’re too old for this.

Or too tired, maybe both?

“O’Connor,” you sigh and look down at the tablecloth, and the alpha moves closer, and you are engulfed in her scent now. 

“Agnes,” she insists, and you open your eyes to see her up close. 

“Agnes,” you inhale, can’t help it. “I’m not normal.”

“I know, you count breathing, I watch how your eyes dilate - we’re different.” She says, but you're glad she doesn’t reach out and touch. But her leaning forward is enough to make you feel intoxicated by the strength of her shoulders in front of you. 

“O’Connor,” you start again, but she shakes her head slightly. 

“Agnes,” she insists again, and you try to politely smile. 

“I have a very different,” you clear your throat and the waiter comes back out to check on you, but Agnes makes a snapping noise with her fingers and he goes away fast. 

“Don’t stop, tell me.” The way this alpha is holding onto your words has you feeling nervous all of a sudden. 

“I don’t have sex like other people - and I’m fucked up. Okay I don’t cut people up just because I’m asked to…If Wanda didn’t employ me as the Bone Doctor, I’d be on a mass killing spree just because I’m…I’m not normal. Not mate material.” You emphasize the idea of normal, and now Agnes is moving forward, so her face is mere inches from you.

You weren’t expecting that at all. 

“I know.”

“Do you?” You laugh a little sarcastically at the idea. 

“I picked you.” The FBI alpha says once more, and something about that makes your fingertips sizzle with need. 

“Agnes, I’m not just-”

“No, no, you’re more.” The older woman says again and puts her fist in front of her on the table. Like she’s holding her body back too. 

“Food and wine isn’t going to tell us if this is going to work.” You respond and lick your bottom lip. Agnes watches your tongue like it’s all she’s ever wanted, then her eyes go back to yours. 

Still, she doesn’t touch you - and that makes you believe she might just be the only person who would ever understand. 

But if you're wrong, then this will be mortifying for your business and these ties. You couldn’t let Wanda down - still this alpha was within kissing distance and showing she wanted to understand you.

Alpha blue eyes bore into yours and you wonder if she’s watching them dilate in real time. 

“Tell me what you need to know.”

You twist around to look over your shoulder at the kitchen door. 

“Is there a hotel that won’t know who you are-” You start but Agnes is already moving to grab her jacket off the back of her chair. 

“Let’s go.” The FBI Director tells you, and you blink unbelieving. 

“Really?” You question - unsure of yourself now.

“You wanna find out, I want to prove myself - and if lettuce doesn’t do that then tell me what you need. Come on.” Agnes pulls her wallet out of her jacket pocket and throws two hundred down on the table.

You walk back towards the front door and she’s close behind, you push your own door open, and the night air whips your hair around. 

Then Agnes fists her jacket and hesitates before deciding to ask. 

“Cold?” The alpha says and you eye the jacket. You want it - but you also can’t take it if this doesn’t work - to miss her would be too much. 

“I have a…touch thing and a scent thing….it’s-” You don’t want to compare it to OCD because you aren’t sure how she’s going to take that. 

It’s so big, its sensory and it’s all-consuming and if it hurts the alpha’s feelings, you don’t want to go further. 

“No problem,” she decides in an instant and steps in front of you. Using her two fingers to whistle loudly a taxi stops for you two. 

Agnes opens the door for you and you slide inside. 

Her ponytail strands move over her strong shoulders as she leans in to the cabbie and gives an address.

Then leans back to sit next to you - still not touching. 

The cab speeds off and you eye Agnes with curiosity. 

“What have you heard about me?” You whisper a little uncertain on how to ask it. 

“Everyone has needs.” The older alpha responded like that answered everything. 

“If we’re going to do this - I need certain….things.” You whisper once more and now Agnes is smiling big. 

“I’d hope so.”