Rating: FRT
Genre: Drama/AU
Crossover: Without a Trace/Rurouni Kenshin
Spoilers: Jus in Bello through Metamorphosis (End S3, beginning S4)
Warnings: I'm mean to people in this. I inflict Saitoh on Kenshin, Hendricksen on the boys and the Ghost Facers on *everybody*. And that's just for starters....
Disclaimer: Not mine. The boys and co belong to Kripke, Kenshin to Watsuki and the WaT crew are part of Bruckheimer's stable...
A/N: This is my NaNo fic, so it was written in November. It therefore goes AU after the episodes aired then.
Summary: Relationships are complicated. They get more so when people keep secrets.

#####

It hurt to breathe. In fact, about the only thing it didn't hurt to do was lie still and attempt not to think. It was a familiar pain; his body seemed to have been expecting it; which suggested that he had been awake before.

Not that he remembered it.

Not that he wanted to remember it if this level of pain was any indication.

The noises around him seemed to indicate a hospital, and on opening his eyes he realized that he was in intensive care. That was new. He'd been in Accident and Emergency wards all over the States, had even been in observation wards with concussions and, on one memorable occasion after the arrest of a drunken number ten on the most wanted list, a gunshot wound to what the doctor had termed his gluteus maximus with a smirk on his face. Hendrickson had simply glared at Reidy and told him that if news that he had been grazed – alright, damnit, shot – in the butt got out to the rest of the Bureau, Reidy would be guarding DC's crosswalks for the rest of his career, no matter that FBI agents didn't generally get assigned to guard crosswalks.

Reidy. Reidy wouldn't even be guarding crosswalks any more, and that caught harder, hurt more than he had thought it ever would. But then, they had been partners practically since the Academy after completing their probationary period. It would be a struggle to work with someone new after ten years together, to have to learn someone else's habits and preferences, to work with someone else in the field as well as he and Reidy had worked. And to do all of that and keep what he knew about the darker side of things a secret was going to be difficult, if not impossible.

He took a deep, fortifying breath and opened his eyes.

Tears sprang up instantly in the brightness of the room and he blinked furiously, trying to clear them. He must have made some sort of noise, because suddenly there was a woman, a nurse, leaning over him, speaking softly, telling him that he was in a hospital in Washington, DC, and that she was going to go get a doctor once she was sure he wasn't going to try to move and dislodge anything.

He hoped that his lack of amusement that she even thought she needed to tell him that was conveyed in his expression, but all she did was smile and pat his hand before she turned away from the bed and retreated with rubber-deadened steps.

Definitely the ICU, he decided, as less than a minute later she was back with a doctor in tow, an older man whose bearded face reminded him uncomfortably of John Winchester, and whose words, whose very presence, had as much of an impact on his life as the former Marine.

He idly hoped that the doctor didn't have children, but decided after a moment that the thought was probably fuelled by the morphine they were doubtlessly feeding him, and stamped on it ruthlessly. When he could recognize the morphine-thoughts? That was probably a good indication he had been hurt once too often. Maybe it was time to change jobs, he thought to himself as the doctor rambled on about burns and skin grafts and a remarkable lack of keloid scarring.

He tuned back in as the doctor asked, "So, aside from all that, how do you feel, Agent Hendrickson?"

Skewering the doctor with an irritated glare, he sighed. "Like I need to go and shoot something," he commented pointedly.

The doctor, it appeared, had dealt with one too many LEOs in his time, because he smiled with genuine amusement and, Hendrickson felt sure, would have patted his shoulder had that not been one of the places the burns were the most severe. "Well, give it a few weeks," he said cheerfully, "and you can be back down at the firing range working on your requalification."

For the record? He felt fairly certain that killing someone with a look was probably not any kind of supernatural skill he would ever have, but there were some days when he really wished it was.

#####

Hendrickson stared hard at the date on the paper he had been handed, as if staring could make it roll backwards. Three weeks. He had lost three whole weeks to the pain and the drugs, at least a week to recovery, despite his final session with the physical therapist, where he had informed the man that all the exercises he had been given were ones he could do in the FBI gym and he wouldn't have to sit around on his ass in bed in between. Admittedly, he would be sitting around on his ass at a desk, but at least there he could do something, even if it was just shuffle cold case files and weed out the dross from his e-mail inbox.

The hospital had not seen it that way, but the doctor had dealt with enough law enforcement to know that three weeks was the best he was likely to get, and had been decent enough to not make him sign out against medical advice, but had looked on him with the kind of resigned, pitying look that most doctors and nurses reserved for the hard-line LEOs, those who looked upon their profession as a calling and not merely a job.

It had felt longer than three weeks, he decided, particularly his time with Lilith. It might explain why, after only three weeks according to the calendar he felt well enough to return to work. He should ask Sam and Dean about that, he decided. Maybe the time with Lilith hadn't all been spent here. He thought back, trying to remember how long Dean had said he had left, and almost sagged with relief as he realized the younger man was still alive, still had time left.

There was still time to find him and ask if there was anything he could do to help, time to find him and his brother and beat the need to wear gloves into them. He sighed, realizing that it wouldn't be possible. He was barely healed, stuck behind a desk and tied to his appointments with the psychiatrist under threat of losing his job. They weren't going to let him take leave for some time, not to go traipsing off around the country.

He scrubbed at his face with his hand, carefully avoiding the burn which was gradually healing over, the flesh shiny and plastic looking. There had to be some way to help the boys.

He jumped as his computer beeped at him and he unburied the device from under the sheaves of paper covering his desk, jiggling the mouse to remove the screensaver. With a groan, he got to his feet and headed off to his meeting with Williams, the guy who had taken over from Groves after his death at the hand of Lilith's minions. He hadn't particularly liked the man, but at least he hadn't been a bureaucrat.

#####

Three hours after returning to work, Hendrickson blinked in disbelief at his supervisor. "Sir, they were already dead before the explosion. I sent you my report!" he protested, not quite able to believe that his report of the brothers' deaths hadn't done the slightest bit of good; not able to believe that the FBI thought him so easily swayed that he would be influenced by anybody in less than a few hours time in their presence without a very good reason.

Williams met his gaze for a moment before looking back at the file on his desk. He cleared his throat. "That's as may be, Hendrickson, but the fact remains you were held hostage by those men for several hours, and after the explosion we found no trace of their bodies. Add to that the fact their car had vanished from the impound lot out the back and what conclusions were we expected to draw? Everyone knows, thanks in the main to your own reports might I add, that those boys go nowhere without that car."

Hendrickson clamped his lips together firmly, not wanting to tell his boss precisely what he thinks he should have done, what he should do, and wanting desperately to curse a blue streak about Dean's attachment to that damned car.

Instead, he slowly released the breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding, carefully schooling his expression. Maybe he could write off any odd expression as a twinge from his burn scars. Maybe Williams would believe him if he said it was gas. He nodded, the action jerky and hastily abbreviated as it pulled in just the wrong way at the tightened skin on the side of his neck. "Was there anything else, sir?" he asked, as politely as he was able, given the circumstances, and Williams stared at him for a long, still moment, before eventually shaking his head.

"That's all for now. Make sure your report is written up for Agent Marks. She's taking over your case and she'll need any insight you can offer her." He frowned at Hendrickson as he hesitated, then his expression softened. "Victor, you've barely requalified for desk work. You think I don't know you go out to your car at lunch time and take a nap? I'm overlooking it because you're a damn good agent, but you aren't up to taking care of a case that requires so much field work. I'm sorry, because I know it means a lot to you, but you need to hand it off. At least for now.

"We'll discuss it again in six months."

At those final words, Hendrickson knew he had been dismissed; discussion over, no appeals. His lips tightened as he got to his feet and stalked from the room.