A/N: Colby's mom was never mentioned on the show, leaving her character interpretation wide open, so pretty much anything and everything goes. Also, I have a very distinct memory from between seasons 3-4 of a preview of "Trust Metric" (which should tell you exactly how old this memory is!) where Colby makes phone call, we hear "Hello", Colby says "Mom, it's me," and then we hear the distinct sound of a dial tone because she'd hung up; Colby's devastated expression as he's holding the phone stayed with me, as well as the sound of the dial tone. Obviously, this little "tease" never made it into the episode - I don't know if that's the network's decision or the show's PTB. I know that happens a lot, though, where something is shown in a promo that never makes into final production.

That said, maybe it was a dream? Which seems unlikely, but I honestly don't know anymore. Regardless, that little tease has always shaped my opinion of Colby's mom; my head canon, if you will. I have roughly a baker's dozen NUM stories swirling around in my brain and of all the ones where she's mentioned (which is actually quite a few), I think there're only 3 where she's a good mom and in one of those she died when Colby was 5, leaving him an orphan when his dad later dies. Keep that in mind when reading this chapter. Fair warning: this chapter is pretty brutal.

"A" is for Alone

Colby sat alone in his car in the parking lot of his apartment building, shoveling the last of the burger into his mouth. He washed it down with a swig of watery soda.

It had been hours since he snarfed down Megan's protein bars and even if he'd dare a censure for stopping for lunch on the way back from interviewing the witness in the Wallace case, he wouldn't risk the same for Megan. He was sure Don would've only reamed him—not her—for delaying their return to the office, but he wasn't sure if the rest of the floor, who jumped on his littlest perceived mistake, would've been as understanding. He wasn't willing to take that chance.

Besides, the witness had run, making him the new number one suspect, necessitating Colby chasing him down. He'd bruised his shoulder in the take down, and they certainly couldn't stop for a bite to eat with a perp in the backseat of the Dodge.

Don had already made it abundantly clear what he thought about Colby eating outside of a specific lunch hour, so Colby swallowed his hunger rather than incurring Don's wrath yet again.

He'd been swallowing a lot of things since he came back; what was one more?

But this was where he wanted to be, with this team. And he'd do whatever he had to—take whatever he had to—to prove it. To prove himself. To prove they could trust him. To prove the past two years meant something. To prove he meant something.

He searched the fast food bag for any wayward French fries, came up empty, and downed the last of his soda.

A truck turned onto the street behind the small lot, headlights raking Colby as he got out of the car and dropped his trash into the garbage can before making his way into the building.

Alone in the brightly lit lobby, Colby headed for the mailboxes set into the opposite wall from the entrance.

He had called his mom from the hospital after the Chinese freighter fiasco, uncertain of what she would've heard up in Winchester, but having been told his and Dwayne's escape had been widely covered by local and regional news outlets. She'd hung up on him.

After careful consideration—and trying not to be hurt by her rebuff—he'd decided to write her a letter explaining everything. He didn't have much in the way of family and even fewer friends and felt too much alone and adrift not to make the effort to reach out. He'd been checking his mailbox ever since, though the continued silence from home was as demoralizing as his welcome at the office.

He sighed when the mailbox proved empty. He bowed his head, trying not to make a big deal out of the nothing he'd received, trying not to dwell on what he was holding onto and why, when he noticed two shipping boxes sitting on the small table beneath the bank of apartment mailboxes.

He couldn't help the smile as he read his name as recipient of both boxes, and it only grew wider at the sender's name.

He held onto the smile and lightness of spirit all the way up to his fifth-floor apartment, thinking this was the first step in putting the whole thing behind him and moving on. Having his mom's understanding would give him the strength to persevere at work until they accepted him too. For the first time in months, he felt happy. More—he felt hopeful.

The first box, the smaller one, only reinforced this positive outlook. A single piece of paper yielded a brief message in his sister's practiced calligraphy:

CJ~

Mom and I made these just for you. Enjoy!

~MJ

The note sat atop a thick layer of bubble wrap and tissue paper, which Colby hurriedly removed. His mouth was already watering.

Sure enough, he found two dozen oatmeal chocolate chip with cranberry and walnut cookies: his favorite. And there were enough to share with the rest of the team. He figured a little bribery, especially of the homemade variety, couldn't hurt.

He bit one in half while pulling a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator. He wished he'd stopped at the store on the way home for some milk. It was too late for coffee, not when he had to get to the office so early, proving his commitment to the team, to the FBI.

Something crunched between his teeth, and pain flared in his mouth.

He chewed cautiously once more, thinking he'd bit into a hard walnut or miscellaneous shell and perhaps bit his tongue or the inside of his cheek at the same time.

Pain and the taste of blood and grit and the distinctive sound of something cracking had him spitting out the mouthful of partially chewed cookie into his hand. Amidst the blood and food were slivers and shards of glass.

He stared dumbly at the mess, uncomprehending, until blood and something jagged caught in his throat. Coughing, Colby flung his handful into the kitchen sink, rinsed his mouth out with beer, retreated to the bathroom to rinse it again with mouthwash.

He returned to the small kitchen in the same dazed state, his mind refusing to process what had happened. Colby stared at the two packages, doublechecked the labels, the packing tape, vaguely wondering how glass had gotten in the cookie, how his mom and sister didn't notice, if they were okay.

Methodically crumbling each cookie revealed they were all filled with broken glass. He didn't know how long he stared blankly at the ruined pile of treats liberally mixed with pieces and fragments of glass, glistening coldly in the overhead light, before he retreated back to the bathroom where he vigorously washed his hands and covered the worst of the bleeding cuts with adhesive bandages.

/1234567890/

Any doubts he had about the origin of the glass, every wildly improbable story and theory he told himself to explain its presence were stripped away when he opened the second box and took out the papers his mom sent him and read the letter she'd written.

CJ~

Your sister and I—even Daniel—read your letter. What none of us understand is how you think being a spy is any better than being a traitor. Seems to me you're a lying sack of shit either way.

You're a disgrace to and a blight on five generations of soldiers. I'm glad your father isn't around to see what you became.

Me? I'm not surprised.

Your father made me promise never to tell you this, but since he's dead…. I never wanted you. I was at the clinic, filled out all the forms for the abortion—your abortion—when your father found me. He convinced me our perfect family of three would be happier with four, that it would work out fine, that he'd always be there.

Well, he lied, didn't he?

It should've been you, instead of him.

I don't know why you weren't in the truck with him that day. If it was an accident, he'll understand why I did this, after what you did. If it was suicide, then I hate him for not taking you with him, for leaving me stuck with you.

But no longer.

I'm done with you, boy. Mikayla and Daniel are done with you. We disown you. Formally and legally … you're no longer a part of this family, no longer our concern, no longer our obligation or albatross. You can get some interesting things off the internet … even documents to make it so.

To show you what we really think of you, Mikayla and I put a surprise in your cookies. We know it won't kill you, but we sure hope it hurt like hell.

MJ never wanted a brother, any more than I wanted a son, and contributed the glasses from the set you gave her and Daniel for their wedding.

I was just going to throw all your things in the trash, but Daniel pointed out you might not believe me and try to reach out again … because you're stupid like that. So, I burned it all, and he busted up your trophies and anything else I couldn't torch.

So here you are. I've returned to you every trace of your childhood and time in my home.

I don't have a son.

I have a wonderful daughter and a son-in-law that every woman wants as her own.

But thank God I have no son.

So, you boy, you can go straight to hell.

~Tina Granger

Colby wasn't aware of the tears running down his face, staring unseeing at the letter leaving him alone in all the world.

/1234567890/

Behind the second page, Colby found the completed forms from the abortion clinic, yellowed now with age. She'd held onto them all these years, as if she'd been ready to march back to that clinic, hand over the paperwork, and get it done after all. She obviously regretted not doing it.

Colby wondered what he'd done wrong.

/1234567890/

Eventually Colby sifted through the box of ashes, pulling out the last charred remnants of his childhood. He moved slowly, carefully, as if he'd swallowed all that glass and any sudden movement would rip it through him, would shatter bones suddenly turned to crystal and cut the hell out of him from the inside out.

It felt like that anyway.

Broken pieces of wrestling trophies, smashed up model tanks and Humvees, the burnt-up husk of his baby album. The blackened remains, drifting to ash at his touch, of the baptismal gown and baby blanket his grandmother had made for him. Corners and singed edges were all that remained of photos—of himself growing up, proof that he had belonged to somebody at one time, of happy memories with friends and family, with his dad—and report cards, of projects a little boy had lovingly if not always skillfully made for his mom. Posters and mementos and everything he had felt important enough to hang onto over the changing years.

He'd kept it all in the family home, while in college, while in basic training, while overseas, while at Quantico, while in California undercover where everything was uncertain and death could find him at any time. Colby thought these things would be safe there, thought he'd haul them to his own place once the assignment was done, surrounded by the love of family no matter how far away he was.

The box of ashes proved otherwise. It wasn't his home.

His family, not unlike his team, didn't want him.

He was alone, and he didn't know if he was strong enough to make it on his own.

He was alone, and no one cared.

Abandoned like trash. Unwanted by the people who were supposed to be there for him no matter what.

He had no one to turn to, no one to rely on, no one to help him if he needed it. No one to give a damn.

It was just him.

He belonged nowhere and with no one. He no longer had a family. Colby struggled to take it all in, to understand just what his family—his once-family—had done to him. The enormity of their decision. His team didn't trust him, didn't want him either. The pathetic thing was, until they flat out told him to leave, he'd keep trying to belong.

Colby stared at nothing for a long time, head bowed, surrounded by the proof that no one would come when he called, that no one would ever be there for him, that he wasn't worth it.

Had never been worth it.

Alone amidst all that loss, Colby wept.