time tells us what we're left with

She rubs her fingers over the inside of her right forearm, touching the sparrow tattoo that had healed unusually fast. A little bird. Elena had gone from a CIA agent to a rogue spy to a Saint, despite all of her hesitance to admit it.

Now, she's simply Elena.

It took a long time for her to stop bouncing between anger and grief. It took a long time for her to accept that Connor and Murphy were gone. Whether they were dead or had simply run away, didn't really matter…as long as they were free, as long as they were together. That was all she could hope for in the end.

But that moment still haunted her, that moment she watched helplessly and wordlessly as Connor and Murphy jumped off the roof and into the dark water below. Actually, it took a long time for her to say anything after that moment. The feds had taken Elena in for questioning, but she was still in a state of shock so her answers were mostly one-word sentences mixed with bouts of silence. As she slowly came out of her fog, she couldn't help but smile at the realization she was inadvertently acting like the MacManus brothers when she first met them all those months ago. Strangely, she accepted the notion that she would go to jail after everything. Because she was alone. Again.

"You're free to go."

Elena blinked hard, sure that she had misheard the FBI agent who sat across from her. "What?"

"You're free to go, Elena."

"H-how? After everything—"

"Your country thanks you," he said with a soft smile. "And the agency accepts your resignation, so to speak, with all documentation regarding your history as such to be destroyed."

A single chuckle huffed from her mouth. "So they're covering up the cover. Makes sense."

"It's just how the United States government works. You know that." Agent Douglas closed the file folder and clasped his hands together. "And you understand you cannot disclose any of this with friends and family or otherwise?"

Easy. Because she was alone.

She was, and then she wasn't when she thought of the others. But just as she was about to open her mouth, Douglas held his hand up as his lips curled up again. "We let everyone else in your group go. No charges, no…" His face fell a bit as he sighed. "No bad blood, for lack of a better term."

Her shoulders dropped with relief. And then her face flushed with the question she was too terrified to even think.

"Elena…there's a chance we may not find them," Douglas said in a low tone.

"What if you do? What will happen to them if—"

"Elena," the agent paused, his mouth pressed together sympathetically as he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

What little hope she had left faded into a memory. And she was free to go.

Bloom had found her at the airport after she'd gone through security. She handed Elena a small bubble mailer, sealed with her name in Smecker's handwriting on the front in black marker. "One last order from motherfucking Smecker: Do not open that until you get to Ireland," Bloom instructed. When Elena looked at her curiously, the Southern belle shook her head with a smile. "Just promise me, okay?"

Elena nodded, and then laughed as Bloom hugged her. "You take care of yourself, yeah?"

Bloom squeezes Elena a little more. "You too, darlin'. And if you're ever in Costa Rica…"

"Of course."

The women let go of each other, and Bloom grinned, fighting back tears as she rubbed Elena's shoulder. Her southern accent was thick as she attempted that one Irish word the boys had taught her. "Sláinte, Jensen."

Elena kept her promise, but the package remained unopened for weeks after she moved into her flat. Call it avoidance, whatever, her gut convinced her that whatever was inside would be the end. Accepting that Connor and Murphy were gone is one thing…knowing is completely different.

Finally, she rips open the package, inhaling a deep breath to summon the strength to deal with its contents. She pulls out a card, a folded piece of paper that looks like it has been ripped from a notebook, and then a small black box.

The card, with a simple design on the front, held Smecker's handwriting inside. A poem referencing love and friendship, with a note below reading, "A little bird told me that you would take care of this. Find me if you ever need anything. Your friend, Paul."

Elena stares down the black box, her throat filling with fear, hesitation, and guilt. She swallows hard, unfolding the paper to find it's the drawing of Connor and Murphy she left when she took off on her own. Her own handwriting still scrawled underneath, "Síochán leat." Peace be with you. And then Connor's handwriting below that, "Is fearr rith maith ná droch-sheas." An old Irish saying that means taking action, even when the outcome isn't clear, is often better than doing nothing. A good run is better than a bad stand.

She smiles, her eyes burning as she reads what he'd written toward the bottom of the page. "Sláinte, mo anam cara."

Her heartbeat vibrates against every single nerve in her body as she reaches for the box. And a tear slides fast down her cheek as she pulls Connor's rosary out.

She wipes her face with one hand, holding the wooden cross in the other palm and threading her shaking fingers through the beads. Her memory rewinds back to that night, realizing that she only saw Murphy wearing his rosary moments before they disappeared off the roof. "God damn it, Connor," she half-laughs to herself, tears still staining her cheeks.

With a sigh, Elena places the rosary around her neck, tucking it inside her shirt like she did that first night she went on the run with the Saints.

Knowing is different.

. . .

The bartender greets her as she walks through the door, almost making her feel like she's in an old episode of Cheers. She replaces the black waist apron on the hook with her jacket, and joins the old man pouring drinks with a soft smile. "Thought ye were taking the day off, lass," he inquires, handing the cocktails off to the two young men sitting at the bar. "Miss me that much there now, did ye?"

"Of course!" She pats him on the shoulder. "And it's tomorrow, Marty. Tomorrow I'm taking the day off."

"That's right. My old brain ain't what it used to be." the pitch of his voice rises like a little kid. Elena laughs as she wipes the bar down, and Marty leans over quickly when he sees one of their regulars walk in. "Oh dear, Joe's here for his daily therapy session," the old Irishman teases. "Time for me to scoot out of the way."

Elena tries not to rolls her eyes as Marty is just avoiding talking to the man himself, leaving her to be the one to listen to whatever problems this particular patron has now. "You're a real sap, you know that?" She calls after him as he disappears in the back.

The regular sits down at the bar while Elena already prepares a pint of Guinness for him. "Joe, how are you getting on today?" she asks, smiling politely, knowing whatever comes out of his mouth will be the usual sad story he gives every night.

The night before it was getting passed over for some promotion, and Elena reminded him that he'd be better off without the added stress. "Aye, yer right, Miss Elena," he nodded in agreement.

Tonight, he actually talks about how the guy who did get the promotion is already up to his neck in paperwork and deadlines coming up quick. "Dodged that, didn't I?" he smiles as Elena hands him the Guinness. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, yeah?"

Her breath catches in her chest, moving her to place a hand on her stomach. She feels the wooden cross nestled under her shirt, hugging the line of the apron wrapped around her waist, and she exhales slowly. "That he does," she answers softly, unable to hide the sad smile threatening her face.

Joe raises his glass to her, his eyes twinkling with appreciation. "Yer truly a Saint, Elena. Sláinte."

Suddenly she can't breathe. She can't say anything as she turns and runs out the back door.

She closes her eyes, sits down with her back against the building, and lets the evening air refill her. Any other day, she'd be fine. But any other day she wasn't wearing Connor's rosary against her skin.

She hears Marty's soft footsteps walk out and he slowly lowers his aging body down to sit next to her. He doesn't say anything right away, he just sits there with her. Like he knows sometimes she just needs his presence, the reminder that she's not really alone. After a bit, his voice speaks up gently. "What's troubling ye, lass?"

Elena avoids his knowing gaze, admitting, "I finally opened that package."

"Oh dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear dear." Elena blushes. Seven "dears" from the old man…that's serious. "And what was inside?"

She looks at Marty's bright old blue eyes, missing the shade of MacManus blue even more. Her lips twist as she shrugs. "It's nothing. Just a note from a friend."

He chuckles. "Nothing is usually something. And that rosary around yer neck is definitely something."

Elena drops her eyes to her hands, rubbing them together and running her finger along the scar on her left palm. Her new lifeline. And Murphy was right…you can't even see the suture marks.

Marty places a hand on her shoulder. "Yer off tomorrow, yeah?" Elena nods, sniffing back the quiet tears threatening to fall. "We're not busy, take tonight too. Go clear yer head. Pray. Whatever ye need to do for ye."

She looks up to her boss, the only friend she has left. "You sure?"

"Aye. I'll talk to Joe and listen to whatever is troubling him now for ye as well."

Elena smiles, a small laugh escaping her mouth. "He's actually in a good mood, so your job just got a little easier tonight."

"Thanks to ye, Saint Elena," Marty says with a wink. He gestures his head toward the path leading up the hill. "Go on, then. I'll be here if ye need me."

She unties her apron and hands it to Marty, and with one last pat on her shoulder, he disappears back into the pub.

With a deep breath, Elena stands up, folding her arms over her chest as she starts up the path. She follows the gravel to the coast, watching the clouds change colors as the waves crash below the cliffs. She listens to the grass flutter in the breeze, leading her to nowhere in particular.

She stops at the top of the hill, looking out to the ocean stretching out from the land she now calls home. There was nothing left for her in America, so she followed her heart back to Galway. And she couldn't help but smile every time she'd hear that damn song in the pub.

Despite the chill in the air and forgetting her jacket, her cheeks are warm as she smiles. She holds her eyes on the bright blue waves as they meet the horizon…that blue, that shade of MacManus blue fading into the glow of dusk.

The wind whips around her, changing direction suddenly when the sun breaks through the clouds. And as Elena turns, brushing her hair out of her face, her heart drops when she sees him.