Chapter Text
Nancy scrubbed her teeth, the sharp tang of mint toothpaste causing her eyes to sting in the early morning light. Her reflection stared back at her, groggy and disheveled. Had she always looked this dead?
Her eyes were barely open, their usual sparkle dulled by heavy bags beneath them. Her tousled hair, a frizzy tangle, cried out for attention yet again. Her curls were starting to lose their bounce, likely thanks to the stifling humidity after the air conditioning in her rundown apartment conked out two days ago.
So much for being a big shot FBI agent, she thought, eyeing the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She couldn't even manage an apartment with working air conditioning in the midst of July.
Nancy splashed water on her face, hoping to wash away the sticky residue clinging to her skin. Then came the pounding—yes, pounding—on her door at five in the morning. She winced at the sound, her body still sluggish as she dragged herself out of bed. The apartment remained in darkness, only the faint morning light filtering through the blinds to guide her steps.
The pounding persisted, louder than before. Nancy didn't think that was possible; her ears were starting to ring. If she wasn't awake before, she certainly was now. Well, maybe just a tad more than before, at least.
Swirling the toothpaste from her mouth and washing away its minty remnants, Nancy padded from her bathroom to the front door of her snug apartment. It was one of the few aspects she cherished about the place—the proximity of everything. Comfortably compact and practical, though she hated how easily it could look cluttered if not perfectly tidy.
Nancy peered through the peephole, spotting an increasingly impatient Max Mayfield, probably itching to knock on her door again. Nancy couldn't fathom why she'd be here. Unless something was wrong, of course—should she be concerned?
"Max? It's not even six yet. What's the emergency?" Nancy asked slowly, casually tucking a stray hair behind her ear, momentarily forgetting she still had her toothbrush in hand until Max raised an eyebrow at it.
"What, you didn't get Hopper's call?"
Nancy furrowed her brows, stepping aside to let Max in. "Hopper's call?"
And with almost comical timing, her phone rang. Nancy's head snapped towards the sound, casting a sideways glance at Max before she walked over to answer it.
"Hello?" Nancy rubbed her eyes, still trying to shake off sleep's grasp. Apparently, Max's door-shattering knocking wasn't enough to rouse her fully. She was an early bird, sure, but this was pushing it. 6:30 was her limit for functional wakefulness. Right now, coffee was a desperate necessity.
"Wheeler, it's Jim. How soon can you get to the office?" She heard some shuffling and the muffled rustle of papers in the background as he spoke.
Nancy squinted through her window, or as much as her blinds would allow. "Maybe within the next twenty minutes, I don't—What's going on, Hopper?"
"It's too much to explain over the phone," he replied, the sound of him lighting a cigarette faintly audible. "It's better if we discuss it in person with everyone. Can you get here as soon as possible?"
Nancy nodded, glancing over at Max, who had settled onto her small couch in the combined kitchen-dining-living room area.
"Yes, of course. I'll be there."
"Great, see you soon."
Nancy hung up the phone, the receiver clicking into place. She had no clue what this could be about. It must be something significant, she reasoned. They hadn't had any cases recently that warranted the entire agency gathering at the crack of dawn.
Nancy grabbed a pot and placed it on the stove as she boiled some water before changing into her clothes for the day. Probably some trousers with a blouse, her go to.
"He tell you why he wanted everyone at the office?" Max said, the clink of a cup against her lips indicating she had probably finished making the coffee for herself.
"Nope. I'm just as confused as you are, but duty calls, I guess," Nancy replied, stepping out of her room. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she reached for a disposable coffee cup to scoop in some instant coffee.
"Yeah, apparently before any normal human should even be out of bed," Max huffed, taking a sip of her coffee.
Nancy chuckled. "You get used to it. Kind of." She topped off the coffee cup and shut off the stove, then turned to grab her keys. Max stood up at the sound, preparing to follow Nancy out the door.
"Doesn't seem like you have yet."
Nancy shot Max a pointed look as they descended the stairs toward the street where her Ford was parked.
There were only a few cars on the street, a stark reminder to Nancy of the ungodly hour they were up. It surprised her a bit that Max was the first to show up at her apartment, considering Max usually slept in more than Nancy ever did. But then again, maybe it was just the eager intern in her.
Max broke the silence first. "So, any guesses on what this meeting is about?"
She shrugged, her focus on the road ahead. "Hard to say. Hopper sounded serious, though. It could be anything from a major breakthrough in a case to some bureaucratic bullshit."
"Seriously? At this hour? They really know how to ruin a good night's sleep."
Nancy chuckled, glancing briefly at Max before returning her focus to the road.
Max suddenly turned away from the window. "Hopper mentioned this new guy around my age. His name starts with a D—Dustin, maybe. He said he turned himself in, offered intel for protection, or—" Max furrowed her brows, noticing the lost expression on Nancy's face. "Wait, did he even tell you about that?"
"No. No, he didn't," Nancy said, swallowing and shaking her head slightly. "Hopper did mention wanting to talk to me about something yesterday when I got to work. I just... I don't know. Sometimes I get the feeling that he hides things to protect me, you know?" Nancy tried to make sense of it all, piecing together the fragments in her mind. Everything seemed to circle back to one thing—the unease that had settled since Hopper took over.
"You don't think it's because..." Max's voice trailed off, her body tensing as she broached the subject. Nancy glanced at her, tightening her grip on the wheel to steady herself.
"I hope not. I don't even think he knows about—" Nancy's eyebrows furrowed, her lips twitching into a frown as her rigid posture wavered. "About Barb."
She didn't want Max to worry, to start wondering if the memories had been affecting her more than usual lately. The nightmares, sleepless nights, cold sweats. Smoking more, just to numb whatever was boiling up inside. All the things her therapists had recited, like a broken record. Things she wasn't ready to accept.
"How would he know?"
Nancy managed a shrug. "Jonathan might've told him. But I don't think he would. We haven't talked in years and he isn't—he wouldn't do that. I just don't want Hopper to treat me like a basket case. If he does know."
Nancy can hear Max shifting in her seat, her gaze flicking back to the street, where the flow of cars is starting to thicken as the morning rush begins. The car pulls to a stop, and now the only sound in Nancy's ears is her own slightly shaky breathing and the low rumble of the Ford's engine.
"If that's why he didn't call you in, we could totally kick his ass," Max says. Nancy's sure it's an attempt to lighten the mood. It works, though. She lets out a small laugh.
The traffic begins to move after a couple minutes, finally. Nancy couldn't bear much more of just sitting there. She despises traffic, loathes the idle moments. Movement keeps her anchored, occupied.
"What do you think about this, Dustin? Think he'll be worth it or just shrivel up in shame?" Nancy cuts through the silence, seeking distraction, something to fill the void.
Max scoffed softly. "What, like every informant that has ever contacted us?" I don't think the odds are in his favor."
———
The scent of cigarette smoke filled Robin's senses, burning her eyes as it always did. You'd think she'd be immune to it by now, after all these years. Twenty-five and lighting up like everyone else.
Beside her, Steve stood with his hands planted on the windowsill, staring down at the streets of Sicily. Whether he was deep in thought or worried about someone tailing them, she couldn't say. But with the way his posture was tenser than usual and the slight shake of his head, it was probably the former.
His father, Salvatore, had been on his case recently. The perks of being the Don's son, she supposed. It was a lose-lose situation. Salvatore held Steve on a pedestal so high he couldn't reach it himself. And when Steve slipped up, he kicked it out from under him, leaving him to fend for himself in the piranha tank that was the family.
Sometimes she feels that pressure on herself, too. After all, Steve was the one who pulled her into this life of crime. He saved her from watching her life crumble to pieces, sure, but she always sensed that his father never liked her involvement. Maybe he never liked her at all. So when they both returned with ruffled hair, scuffed oxfords, and the safeties clicked off their guns, Salvatore wasn't exactly the happiest man on Earth.
"They know about the emeralds," Salvatore growled, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. "A complete disaster. How could this happen?"
Robin glanced over at Steve, hoping for some support in the conversation. She knew it was useless. Neither of them had seen it coming. They were just glad to have gotten out alive, unlike the few distant people whose screams of agony still echoed in her mind. It never got easier, did it?
Steve ran a hand through his hair, his gaze still fixed outside. "If you weren't flaunting it everywhere, then maybe this wouldn't have happened."
Salvatore scoffed, shaking his head. "Flaunting it? Nun essiri ridiculu, Stefano. Everything I do is for this family. If anyone's to blame, it's those vultures out there waiting for any sign of weakness. Maybe if you paid more attention to the business instead of your... extracurricular activities, you'd understand the pressure I'm under."
Robin sat up straighter in her seat as Steve turned to face his father, a hand on his hip.
"We almost died!" Steve shouted. Robin flinched at the sudden raise of his voice. "They put a gun to my head. Maybe if you stopped thinking you were untouchable and actually listened to me, none of this would've happened."
His words held a sharp edge, mirroring Robin's own thoughts. Since they had entered the room, he hadn't shown any concern for either of them. No reassurance, no care for his own son, who was meant to inherit his mantle one day.
Salvatore's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared at Steve. His hands now balled in fists in front of him. It was almost like he was resisting the urge to lay Steve out right in front of her. She was sure he wouldn't do it. At least, not in front of Robin. But she and Steve were rarely ever separated anyway so, she just let the thought go away as fast as it came.
"You should have been more prepared," Salvatore finally bit out, his voice cold and authoritative.
Robin exchanged a glance with Steve, seeing the frustration etched on his face. She knew Steve had always struggled under his father's expectations, but tonight seemed to push them both to their limits. Robin shook her head slightly as Steve, as if to say it wasn't worth it. Steve released a breath at this, swallowing down whatever he was about to shout at his dad.
"We did what we had to," Robin interjected firmly, her voice hoarse. Damn cigarette smoke.
She glanced over to Steve, who was now turned to his father. "We got out alive. That's what matters."
Salvatore's gaze shifted to Robin, his expression unreadable. She wasn't really afraid of Steve's father. She should be, but she wasn't. She didn't mind taking what she knew Steve couldn't from him, even if he didn't say it out loud. After a tense moment, he sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead with a hand.
"Clean up this mess," he ordered tersely, placing his cigarette in his mouth again and taking a deep puff. He looks at Steve. "And make sure it doesn't happen again."
———
Nancy nearly collided with someone as she scanned her keycard at the door leading to the meeting room. The place was packed, filled with people Nancy had never seen before in her two years at the bureau. Her grip tightened on her purse as she navigated through the crowd, heading past her and Max's cubicle.
"Who are those guys?" Max nudged Nancy on the hip, nodding toward two men carrying briefcases. Nancy squinted at one of their belts, spotting a badge that read DEA.
Nancy's eyes widened. "That's the DEA... shit." Now she really had no idea what was going on. If even the DEA had to be called in, it had to be big.
"Woah," Max mumbled.
Navigating the narrow corridor to the briefing room was a challenge in itself. Nancy found herself apologizing repeatedly as she weaved through groups of people deep in animated conversations. Max, tightly clutching Nancy's purse, struggled to keep up amidst the bustling crowd. Nancy couldn't help but notice a distinct group of what looked like Italian law enforcement officers.
Half expecting Richard Nixon to be standing at the head of the table when she walked into the room would have been only slightly less absurd than the reality awaiting her.
Nancy exchanged smiles that never quite reached her eyes and terse nods with familiar faces as she scanned the room for a place to settle. The table was cluttered with half-drunk coffee cups and analysts shuffling papers, adjusting nervously as they murmured amongst themselves. Each face mirrored her own mix of confusion and intrigue.
Finally, she spotted two vacant seats near the head of the table, where Hopper sat donning reading glasses and poring over files. Hopper glanced up from the sea of paperwork spread before him, sensing Nancy's arrival as she settled beside him. There was a flicker of relief in his eyes as he extended his hand for Nancy and Max to shake in greeting.
"Glad you two could make it", he said, flashing a tight-lipped smile as he tucked his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. He nodded towards a group gathered by the projectors.
Hopper cleared his throat at the front of the room, adjusting his tie with a weary tug. Nancy, ever prepared, withdrew a small notepad, figuring it was as good a time as any to put it to use.
"Thanks for the prompt turnout," Hopper began with a wry half-smile, his voice tinged with sarcasm that seasoned agents like Nancy recognized all too well. "Seems the world waits for no one, especially not us."
He clicked a remote, the screen flickering through slides until settling on a photo of lustrous emeralds nestled in a crate.
"These beauties," Hopper continued, his tone taking on a more serious edge, "have quite the story. Our friends in Sicily think they're boosting their rep with a shipment of these precious stones. Little do they know, our European counterparts tipped us off—they're actually smuggling.." He clicked the remote, revealing a cracked emerald with a hidden baggie inside. "20 tons of heroin."
Nancy's eyes shot up to her forehead, her disbelief matching Max's. Max, equally stunned, muttered, "DEA. That checks out, I guess."
"Yeah, no kidding. That's a shitload of drugs," Nancy said, shaking her head as she turned back to Hopper. He was trying to quiet the room, still buzzing with shocked murmurs. She couldn't blame them. Smuggling wasn't unheard of, but the creativity of hiding fifty kilos of heroin in emeralds was something else entirely.
Hopper waited for the murmurs to die down before he continued. He clicked the remote again, and a map of Europe flashed onto the screen, tracing a line from Sicily to Chicago. "Alright, listen up. Here's the play-by-play. Italian law enforcement got wind of this operation a few weeks ago. They've been monitoring the ports in Sicily, watching for anything that looks like it's headed our way."
He clicked again, zooming in on the Sicilian port. "This is where it starts. The shipment is being loaded here, disguised as high-value cargo—emeralds. From there, it's a straight shot to Chicago. The cover is tight, but not tight enough."
Nancy scribbled notes furiously, her mind racing. This was bigger than anything she'd dealt with before. Max leaned over, whispering, "Think we'll get to go undercover for this one?"
Nancy shot her a look. "Focus, Max. This is serious."
Hopper continued, unfazed by the room's lingering shock. "We've got a narrow window to intercept this shipment. The DEA is already on it, but we're the boots on the ground. We'll coordinate with customs at both ends. No room for error."
He clicked the remote again, and a series of photos of key Harrington family members filled the screen. "These are the players. Mr. Harrington is the ringleader. He's the one orchestrating the whole thing. His people trust him—well, most of them do."
The projector then showed an image of a younger man with big curly hair. Nancy's mind raced. Must be the guy Max was telling her about in the car. Max nudged her. "That's him. Dustin."
Hopper's voice cut through her thoughts. "Dustin Henderson. Recently contacted us, asking for immunity. He's the one who tipped us off about the emeralds. Guess the kid has a vendetta against his own boss or something."
Nancy noted the skepticism in Hopper's tone. Informants were a double-edged sword. Valuable, but dangerous.
Hopper clicked to another slide, this time showing a detailed chart of the Harrington family's operations. "We need to be smart about this. Henderson's intel is good, but it's not gospel. We verify everything. No mistakes."
He flipped through the next few guys, describing their roles while Agent Harmon and SAC Callahan chimed in with their own snippets of intel. Nancy recognized a few names. Eddie Munson, a fresh face in the family since '72, the same year Nancy joined the bureau. He was the first character she cut her teeth on in the field.
Steve Harrington, the Don's son, yet somehow still just a soldier and not second-in-command. His hair was as unruly as ever. She recalled seeing photos of him from his teenage years, all cocky smirks and wild hair.
Then there was Tommy Hagan, the underboss. Born in Indiana just like her, but he'd moved to Sicily in the late '50s with his family. He'd apparently picked up a fair amount of Italian over the years. If things had been different, they might have crossed paths back home.
And lastly, Jason Carver. Member of one of the many rival gangs, always the main instigator. Ever the asshole. Arrested multiple times in the past few years for everything from petty crimes to aggravated assault. No surprises there. His presence in the Mafia felt like a bad joke that kept getting worse.
Hopper's voice droned on, detailing each player's part in the operation. But Nancy's thoughts were already moving ahead, piecing together strategies and plans. They had their work cut out for them, and she was more than ready to dive in, no matter how deep this went.
Hopper circled the table, handing out files. Each one bore the name of a woman who, according to Dustin, was crucial to their case.
Nancy glanced at the file in front of her. Robin Buckley. The name triggered a vague recognition, but Nancy knew little about her. She flipped open the folder and was met with a photograph. Striking blue eyes stared back at her, beautiful and intense.
"This is our in," Hopper declared, glancing around the room, ensuring everyone was paying attention before continuing. "Buckley isn't your typical mafia brute. According to Henderson, she's the smartest in the bunch. Fluent in multiple languages—Sicilian, Russian—you name it. That's why she's our ticket to infiltrate and disrupt their plans. We need her to arrange the export of those 'precious stones'."
Beside her, Max raised her hand, her voice cutting through the room. "Does she—Robin Buckley—know about the drugs hidden in the gems?"
"Good question—no, she doesn't," Hopper responded, his tone dry but direct. "And when we deploy our agent undercover, she'll act like she doesn't know about the hidden drugs either. It's the best way to approach it." His explanation was curt, leaving no room for doubt.
Nancy's mind raced, the reality sinking in. She glanced around, realizing she was the only woman in the room besides Max, who was too young and inexperienced to be deployed to another country. Which must mean...
"Wheeler, pack your bags. You're about to embark on the European vacation of your life," Hopper announced, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He glanced over at her, eyes steady. "Tomorrow afternoon, you're heading to Sicily. You'll make contact with Dustin Henderson. He'll guide you through the next steps. If all goes according to plan, you'll be back here safe and sound."
Nancy straightened her shoulders, trying to mask the nerves that fluttered in her chest. She met Hopper's gaze with a steady look, refusing to let him see any hesitation.
She glanced at Max, who gave her a supportive nod, then back at Hopper. "I'll be ready."
Nancy's jaw tightened. She knew what this assignment meant: high-risk, high-reward. She could handle it, she was sure, but the stakes were astronomical. Fifty kilos of heroin hitting the streets could destroy countless lives.
Hopper gave her a nod, "Briefing's over, folks. Prepare your gear and be ready for updates. Wheeler, a word with you before you head out."
The room started to empty, murmurs of concern and urgency filling the air. Max gave Nancy a reassuring pat on the shoulder before following the crowd.
Nancy stayed behind, taking a deep breath as she approached Hopper. He handed her a folder. "Everything you need is in here. Contact info, false identities, maps, the works. Don't take unnecessary risks, Wheeler."
She nodded, taking the folder. "Got it, Boss."
As she left the briefing room, the enormity of her mission settled in. She was really doing this.
-
Nancy sat at her cramped dining table, the folder from Hopper open in front of her. She was supposed to pose as an interested buyer. It sounded solid in her head, but reality was a different beast. She expected skepticism, especially from Robin. Word was she was the sharpest one in the bunch—not a high bar to clear, but still, Nancy remained wary.
Her bag was packed. Five pairs of pants, five shirts—no more, no less. Each item was picked for the brutal Sicilian summer: breathable, lightweight. Because really, the last thing she needed was to keel over from a heat stroke in the middle of a mafia sting.
Max stumbled through the door, looking as if she'd fought a battle with her own nerves and lost. Nancy and Max had burned the midnight oil, phones glued to their ears, dissecting every detail of the plan. Max, ever the anxious mess, wasn't doubting Nancy's skills—it was more about her protective streak, almost sisterly in its intensity. She reminded Nancy painfully of Holly, her actual little sister, who was about to turn 14. Talk about feeling old.
Nancy understood the roots of Max's protectiveness—they reached deep, tangled in her troubled relationship with her brother, Billy. Billy was a ghost in the Chicago mob scene, dodging law enforcement for the past five years. Max hadn't spilled many details, but it was clear she harbored guilt, feeling she should've steered him clear of that life, feeling responsible for his safety. Classic Max, taking the world on her shoulders—even for a brother who was frankly a complete prick.
The whole situation with Barb didn't help, layering anxiety upon Max's already burdened psyche. Nancy hadn't yet found the guts to tell Max about the nightmares that had become more frequent with the spike in crime. She suspected Max might've picked up on it, though, given how Nancy had been dragging herself to work. The dark circles under her eyes were one thing; dozing off at her cubicle for stolen moments of rest was quite another.
Nancy set down a photograph of a nondescript bar and took a deep breath, just as Max barged in, arms laden with sustenance.
"Jesus, are you trying to trip me? Your suitcase was a booby trap at the door," Max said, thrusting a cup and a muffin at Nancy. It was the usual—a chocolate muffin and a coffee aggressively spiked with espresso.
Max had an uncanny knack for knowing when Nancy's stomach was growling—whether it was morning hunger or a day-long fast. She always showed up, provisions in hand, no invitation necessary. It was like she had a sixth sense for it, or some kind of stomach-whisperer superpower.
Nancy accepted the cup, feeling its warmth soothe her fingers. "Thanks, Max," she replied, managing a faint smile.
Max dropped into the chair opposite, her eyes quickly sweeping over the chaos of papers and photos sprawled across the table. "What's on your mind?" she asked, her voice casual but her eyes sharp with concern.
Nancy exhaled slowly, knowing better than to try and bluff. "It's a lot. This case... it's stirring up some ghosts, that's all."
Max took a deliberate sip of her coffee, her gaze steady. "Figured as much. That's why I brought reinforcements," she gestured to the muffin with a half-smile. "And also, because I wanted to see if you're okay."
"I'm hanging in there. Just a lot to sort through, you know?"
Max leaned back in her chair, giving Nancy a once-over with a look that said she wasn't buying any half-baked reassurances. "Look, Nancy, you're one of the toughest people I know. But even tough people need to vent sometimes, so... Spill. What's really going on with you?"
"You really want to know?" Nancy rolled her eyes, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Fine. It's not just the case. It's the whole damn circus around it. The undercover gig, pretending to be someone else, getting close to these people... It's like trying to walk a tightrope while juggling flaming swords."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Sounds about right. But you're good at this. You've got the brains, the guts, and let's face it, the charm to pull it off."
Nancy snorted. "Charm? That's a stretch. More like a stubborn streak a mile wide." she swallows, picking at the paper around her cup. "It's—It's Barb, too. I can't shake the memories. She's been on my mind a lot lately. This whole thing... it's bringing back stuff I thought I'd buried. I haven't dealt with a big mafia case in a while, and now I'm supposed to act like I'm one of them? I don't know."
"Look, I know I never met Barb, but I know how much she meant to you. She wouldn't want you carrying all this weight alone. This case, it's just another chance to prove you're still in the game. You can handle it. And if it gets too heavy, you've got me to help carry the load."
"You sound like me right now. I should be the one giving pep talks, not you," Nancy said with a soft chuckle, locking eyes with Max.
"I learn from the best, right?" Max shot back, reaching across the table to grasp Nancy's hand, her grip firm and reassuring. Nancy squeezed back, a smile playing at the edges of her lips.
"Now, let's finish that muffin and get you ready to kick some ass," Max declared, rising from her seat. She grabbed Nancy's luggage and started dragging it out of the room.
-
They stood at the curb, the city's bustle fading into a rare moment of quiet. Nancy, however, was far from calm, her hands repeatedly sweeping the sides of her pants. The afternoon was cool and breezy, a respite from the usual summer heat. Nancy had always favored the chill of autumn over the oppressive warmth of summer. She was going to have to get used to it though, given Sicily's notorious humidity—reportedly even worse than Chicago's.
After a few attempts, Nancy flagged down a taxi, its yellow form cutting sharply towards the curb. Max, ever insistent, hoisted Nancy's luggage into the trunk, dismissing Nancy's protests with a shake of her head. As she slammed the trunk shut, Max turned to Nancy, her expression shifting to one of solemnity.
"Promise me something," she said, her voice low. "Don't do anything stupid. Stick to the plan. I need you to come back in one piece."
Nancy pulled her into a tight hug, the kind that said more than words ever could. "I promise."