A/N: So, I'm back with another fic, but this one's different! Number one, one of the main characters is a teenage BOY!! I haven't done that before. And secondly, it's not my idea! Hahaha. One of my readers contacted me about writing his idea for a fic, so I thought I'd give it a shot. So this is Cole's idea. He's not a member, but he's a fan. Please enjoy and review.

The phone rang loudly on Nick Stokes' nightstand, disturbing the young CSI into the land of the living. He winced and groaned at the sound. After having just worked a double, he was not exactly thrilled that the device was disturbing his slumber. Or more accurately, whoever the hell was on the other line. If it was another telemarketer, he was going to give them a piece of his mind. If it was Grissom, he wasn't going to quit his job. Well, maybe that would go a little too far. He'd curse his boss in his mind, and that's what he'd have to settle for.

Nick stretched his arm out to pick up the cordless phone, clicked talk, and rubbed at his face tiredly.

"Stokes."

"Hey, Nick. It's Grissom." Nick began cursing him right off that bat in his head. However, he had so much respect for the man, and viewed him as a sort of mentor. He could never disrespect Grissom. But he could be annoyed with him.

"Griss, I just got to sleep. Can this wait?" Nick immediately asked as he glanced at his alarm clock through his half-closed eyelids. It read 11:03 in the morning. His sleep time.

"I'm afraid not, Nick." He told his coworker, but didn't sound too concerned. With Grissom, it was all-business. The man could care less, he was sure, if he lost a night of sleep. Maybe he thought the entire team could operate like him, and be able to suppress his emotions at a crime scene. Nick got so exhausted sometimes because he did connect with the victims a lot, and that could get really emotionally draining. Hence, his need at the moment for sleep. It was the second time in two days that he'd been called in. "We've got several double-homicides that day shift is already busy on. I really need your help on a robbery call on Eighteenth Street."

Nick scrubbed his hand over his face. "Can't Warrick come in?" He turned his bedside lamp on, already knowing the answer to that and covered his eyes from the blinding light.

"His grandmother died. He's out of town." Grissom explained, looking around in the night at his own crime scene. "So, are you gonna help?"

Nick sighed. Did he really have an option? "Yeah, Griss. I'll be there." He clicked his phone off, not waiting for a response, and tossed it to the middle of his nice, warm bed. It would now be empty for a good while longer. Nick just hoped there wasn't too much to the scene. Hopefully, he could just collect the evidence, talk to the family, fill out the paperwork, and then save the rest for later.

The CSI flipped on the light to his bathroom and winced his eyes again at the brightness. He bent down and splashed some water of his face, then gently used a towel to wipe it off. Staring at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but wonder if this was how he was supposed to live his life forever. A bachelor, working all hours of the day and night, coming home to an empty apartment. Of course Grissom called him, because he knew Nick didn't have anything better to do other than sleep. No wife or kids; not even a girlfriend right now. Nobody wanted to be alone for the rest of his life, and pushing forty, Nick was beginning to think that's how he was meant to live. Alone.

CSI CSI CSI CSI CSI

Fifteen minutes later, Nick arrived at the scene on Eighteenth Street. The cops were already there, of course, with all their lights going, disturbing the rest of the neighborhood. It never ceased to amaze Nick, people's fascination with crime scenes and dead bodies. Someone got murdered? Let's go see if we can see the body! Nick shook his head at the crowd gathered behind the yellow tape, feeling cynical this morning. Get a life people, he wanted to say to them, but then he realized he'd be a hypocrite if he said that.

He walked over with his case to Detective Brass, who appeared to have written down some notes while he talked to the victim's wife. Brass saw Nick arrived, and wrapped up the question he was posing to the distraught woman. Eighteenth Street was not known to be a premier area of Las Vegas. The woman looked to be wearing older clothes, her haircut cheap and her roots showing about halfway down her head. One look at her house, and he already knew. Drugs. The punks were after drugs. Nick eavesdropped a bit on their conversation.

"He always told me not to worry." The woman struggled not to break down. "He said he had everything under control and knew what he was doing. Obviously, he got in over his head." She gestured towards the house, and all the circus of the police and investigators.

Brass thanked the woman and led her to sit down on the back of the ambulance until they figured out what to do. Then, Jim walked closer to Nick to share a few words about the investigation so far.

"Drug pick up gone bad." Brass informed him as both men looked off towards the house. "Wife said it was a group of teenage boys mostly. She was in the bedroom, and fled out the window when she heard gunshots. Police got one of the kids, but the other three managed to get away. The wife is gonna try to give descriptions and meet with a sketch artist."

Nick nodded in understanding and bit back a yawn. What was wrong with kids these days, honestly? Too many video games, no honest work. He bet they thought they could get away like the characters in Grand Theft Auto or one of many Hollywood movies. Little punks.

"Where's the body?" Nick already had his latex gloves ready, dangling one in his left hand so he could put it on his right.

"Living room. Watch your step, it's a bit of a dump." Brass warned him. Nick heeded his advice and entered the property with caution. He was always a little jumpy now entering a scene after all that had happened to him and his coworkers. Las Vegas was a dangerous town, and not one that he'd ever want to raise kids in.

He soon came across the body. A man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair that appeared a bit greasy, laying in a pool of his own blood in his boxers and a wife-beater top. Nick sighed and knelt down next to him and the pool of blood. He'd seen guys like this dozens of times. Men not exactly in their prime, working at places like the tire store or the gas station, wanting to get into some extra cash. And that extra cash had just cost him his life. Nick shook his head and began collecting evidence from the body.

Nick did his normal routine throughout the house, looking for clues. He checked for shoeprints, and anything the kids may have touched for fingerprints. Teenagers were usually easier to catch because they were scared and sloppy. They were all probably just biting their nails now, remembering that they'd taken that can of beer from the fridge, downed it, and left it on the kitchen counter. Or that part of their baggy, beat up jean cuffs had torn off in the living room, another piece of evidence that Nick bagged and collected. One idiot left a cigarette right on the coffee table. Nick was certain he was going to get all of them. But putting away kids never gave him the satisfaction of putting away an adult counterpart. Poor kids were probably the victim of bad parenting, a hard-knock education, and the anger of living in poverty and crime. Nick wished he could knock some sense into some of them, and tell them this was not the way they had to live their lives. This was the easy way out, a life of crime. Hard work would pay off, if they gave it an honest try.

Several hours later, Nick had finally finished his analyzing of the crime scene, so he exited the house with his case in hand, ready to hit the sack once again, and this time for good. It would be some of the best sleep he ever had. He grunted slightly as he lifted his case into the back of his Denali, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Just as he closed the door, he turned to his left to walk to the driver's seat, when he saw a kid, about fifteen years old, he would guess, staring at him from behind a van across the street. Nick narrowed his eyes, and couldn't help but notice the kid staring guiltily at him. He'd seen that look a thousand times, on those criminals who just couldn't hide the fact they'd done something horribly wrong, and Nick had just presented them with undeniable evidence. In a few words, he looked like trouble.

"Hey!" Nick called to him, motioning for him to come over. Maybe he'd seen something, and was only now returning to the scene to give his recount of the events. "Come here, I need to talk to you."

The kid seemed to stand up straighter, and Nick caught only a millisecond's view of his full figure before he started running – about his height, with messy brown hair, baggy jeans, and probably a troubled past. He wasn't skinny, but not exactly muscular – just an average teen who probably liked to work out a bit to impress the ladies.

Nick cursed under his breath, out of energy, but he knew he needed to catch up to this kid. Obviously, he knew something, or was involved in some way.

"Hey!" Nick called after him again, running at full speed towards him. The boy must know this area well, because he darted and ducked around the trees and houses expertly. "Las Vegas Police! Stop right there!"

There had been a uniformed officer back at the scene inside, but no one had been around to help Nick with his pursuit. Nick managed to chase him for a good two blocks, before he lost him within the old homes, abandoned old cars, and oak trees. He slowed to a jog, and then a walk, and finally stopped, leaning forward onto his thighs with his hands.

"Son of a bitch." Nick muttered, trying to catch his breath. He knew this kid was important to the case, if not a main suspect. Nick decided he would need to file another report about this, and compare his description of the boy with the victim's wife's account. Then they could put a watch out for this kid and hopefully track him down.

The victim was his main priority in this, but as Nick drove off to the CSI headquarters, he couldn't stop himself thinking about the boy. He'd likely come from a bad home, maybe even a single mom raising him, and got in with a bad crowd. Nick wondered when he'd turned down the wrong path. When had his mother stopped recognizing him as that sweet kid who likely used to bring her dandelions from her own garden, and who watched Barney on television? Now that kid was gone, and he was a criminal, most likely. But Nick couldn't help but wonder, could that kid turn himself around? Was he hopeless and truly a criminal, or was there a tiny little sliver of goodness inside him? Maybe he wanted to fess up and get himself help. He'd ventured back to the crime scene, after all.

Nick sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair as he sat at a red light.

"It's just a case, Nick. Get a hold of yourself." He instructed himself in the rearview mirror. But he couldn't shake it off. There was something about that kid that made him want to find out more. Could he help this kid? It wasn't his job, but was it his duty?