Ethan stumbles into the emptiest carriage, feet heavy beneath him, clutching at his chest. He collapses back onto the seat and watches the train doors jerk shut and it starting to pull away from the station. Even though he's made it so far, he's hurt, and he can't force himself to run any further yet. After the five hour flight from London to Moscow with the one cover ID he's relatively certain won't be compromised yet, he's exhausted.

Fortunately it's one long line to the former IMF safehouse here and by the time he reaches the next stop the tourists and commuters will be out in full force. No-one will notice him amongst the others, so he has some time to gather his thoughts.

Ethan's eyelids feel heavy and even though he knows he shouldn't, he closes his eyes. He needs to stay awake, get to the safehouse, somewhere he can patch up his wounds and rest up for a while but he can't hold on. He remembers an article he read years ago, about a guy who died on the MTA in LA; it had taken six hours for anyone to notice. How long would it take in Moscow?

He just wishes, if he has to die here, that he could have someone whose arms he could die in. Julia is long gone now, and his work has stopped him from ever getting that close to anybody else in case he puts them in danger too. Even his friends are thousands of miles away, probably in a similar situation themselves. He has to stay around, just to make sure they're okay…

It's not long before he can't even hold onto that thought any more.

There are only a couple of seats left in the carriage when Sidorov steps on the train, and all next to other people, so he stays standing. As the train leaves the station, he stifles a yawn; he's had a long night's work and he can't wait to get back to his apartment. He managed to work through the night again, so his cat won't thank him when he gets home, but when he looked at the clock, it had already been 6am, and he'd needed to finish the rest of that paperwork, not that anyone else would read it.

He walks down the train, ignoring the gossiping teenagers and half-awake businessmen, and into the next carriage which is mercifully quieter.

…He realises, as soon as he sees the man in the seat by the door, that he perhaps shouldn't have been so ready to get home. Sidorov recognises him instantly. It was hard to forget a man like Ethan Hunt.

The last time he'd seen Ethan, he'd been lying in a hospital in Mumbai, badly injured and only a little paler than he is now. The American had left him on a goose chase halfway across the world, but in the end he'd saved millions of lives, undoubtedly Russian as well as American. Sidorov had spent more time in that hospital room than he cared to admit, even if Ethan hadn't been in state to speak most of the time. Ethan's team hadn't exactly been impressed, but he'd had to apologise, then he had to thank them for telling him where to find the real culprit of the Kremlin bombing, then he just didn't want to leave. They hadn't been enemies by the end of it, although it was only his side that thought that in the first place. Ethan had always seemed glad to see him at least. He hasn't heard anything from the American since then. If he's back in Moscow, it can't be good.

Sidorov takes the seat next to him, but his eyes don't open, he doesn't react at all.

"Agent Hunt," he says, right next to his ear, but to no effect. He touches Ethan's shoulder, and his eyes finally flutter for a second, then slowly open. He seems disoriented for a second, then blinks a few times and notices Sidorov for the first time.

"Sidorov," his voice is quiet, barely more than the breathed-out syllables of the last time they met. He manages a smile. "Hey."

It suddenly strikes Sidorov deep in his chest that he's never actually heard what Ethan's voice sounds like when he isn't in pain. This is closer to the last time they met than the first, when he was so badly hurt he still couldn't even manage a full sentence.

He tries to keep his voice casual, keeps speaking in Russian so they don't attract any unwanted attention, but he knows Hunt's condition can't be good even if he can't see any obvious injuries. "American, we have to stop meeting like this."

Another smile, this one slightly bitter. "Not here to arrest me, this time?"

"Not this time." He finally returns the smile. "What brings you to Moscow? Not another mission, I hope. They haven't finished rebuilding the Kremlin since your last visit."

"Not this time," Ethan echoes. He shifts to sit up straighter, and his jacket falls open to reveal a shirt soaked to his chest with blood.

"Jesus Christ, American," Sidorov breathes. "What happened to you?"

He hesitates for a second, breathing heavily. "A lot of things."

The train slows, and Sidorov knows without listening to the announcement that it's his stop. He makes an impulse decision. "Come with me."

"What?"

He doesn't answer, just wraps an arm around Ethan's chest and hauls him to his feet. Ethan doesn't even fight him, just leans into his side, concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. When he straightens, Sidorov feels broken ribs shift beneath his hand. A choked sound of pain escapes Ethan's chest as they take the longer step down to the platform, but when Sidorov looks questioningly at him, he shakes his head instead of even trying to answer.

It's Saturday morning, and they're not the only ones staggering through the street after a long Friday night, although those around them have very different reasons. Sidorov chose to move to a neighbourhood like this, so loud and close to the late bars, for that precise reason. He might have had to pay for extra soundproofing on his place, but they don't get so much as a second glance from the young people just getting thrown out as the final club closes for the day. Drunks rarely notice anything of importance.

Ethan doesn't seem to have noticed; he's dragging his feet, eyes barely open.

"Just a little further," Sidorov promises, in English this time, not sure if he'll understand Russian in this state.

Ethan still doesn't respond. Sidorov frowns, but doesn't press him. If he's in that much pain, he has a good reason not to speak. He only loosens his hold on Ethan's chest to reach into his pocket for his keys. Ethan closes his eyes and leans against the wall by the door, too unsteady on his feet to stay stood on his own, flinching when Sidorov gently touches his shoulder to get his attention when the door opens. He leans just as heavily into Sidorov's side, just trying to keep his legs from collapsing under him as they walk to the elevator.

He starts to think they've going to be lucky and not run into any of his neighbours on the way, but when the doors open on his floor, Nadia from a few doors down the corridor is waiting at the doors on her way to work.

She freezes when she sees them there, then takes a hesitant step towards them. "God, who is that? What happened to him?"

Sidorov swallows his concern and gives her a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "A colleague from America over for a conference. He had a few drinks too many and he won't tell me where his hotel is. You know Americans," he says with a shrug. "Can't handle their vodka."

Nadia nods, rolls her eyes; she works at a bar near the airport, she definitely understands that. Even if she doesn't believe him, she knows better than to ask. She steps out of the way and lets them through.

"Good luck with that."

"I'll need it," he says, meaning what he says this time, even if his smile is still fake.

Inside the apartment, he immediately leads Ethan to the bedroom and finally lets him collapse. He doesn't know how much blood the American has lost, but it has to be a lot for him to be this dazed; he props Ethan's feet up on a couple of pillows to try and stop him from going into shock. He's cold, but that will have to wait until he's not losing blood.

Sidorov straightens and starts towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Ethan whispers, and he sounds so distraught that Sidorov doesn't want to leave his side, but he's lost more than enough blood already. A dead IMF agent in his bed is not something he wants to explain to his superiors. He doesn't answer Ethan's question, just head out into the bathroom.

He keeps a well stocked first aid kit in the cupboard above the sink, the one item that is never left there long enough to accumulate the thin layer of dust that covers the various bottles of aftershave that people always seemed to buy him for Christmas. He takes the kit and a bottle of painkillers left over from the last time he was hurt back to the bedroom.

Ethan is still awake, and looking slightly brighter than he did before; Sidorov's cat has rematerialised from wherever she was hiding to investigate the new person in her home.

"Is this your cat?" Ethan whispers, scratching behind her ears while she does her absolute best to look unimpressed while still purring like an engine.

"She doesn't belong to anyone except herself," Sidorov says, a quiet fondness creeping into his tone. "But she lives with me."

"I didn't know you had a cat."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, American. Myshka, brys',"

Ethan frowns as Myshka leaps down off the bed and stalks out of the room, then smiles again as he realises what Sidorov just said.

"Did you call your cat Mouse ?"

Sidorov feels heat rise in his cheeks. "Not important," he snaps, but Ethan's smile only gets wider.

Sidorov crouches next to the bed instead of getting distracted any further and opens the first aid kit. He cuts through the material of Ethan's jacket and shirt instead of trying to get them off, winces sympathetically as he sees the injury that caused all the blood. There's a bullet exit wound at the base of his ribs, right at his side. With a wound like that, Sidorov is surprised he's even still alive; a millimetre either way and he probably would have been dead in minutes. He carefully roles Ethan onto his side to examine the entry point on his back. The bullet went straight through. As far as he can tell, it didn't hit anything important, and most of the blood is dry or sticky so it must have been at least a few hours since he was hurt. Ethan's body is mottled with purple and blue bruises so dark in places they're almost black, and caked in blood from the gunshot. Even through all that Sidorov can see the broken ribs that he felt earlier through the muscle and skin. He's taken a hell of a beating, Sidorov is impressed that he even made it as far as he did without giving up, but he supposes he shouldn't be surprised; he saw the footage of the fight that ended with Ethan barely conscious on the floor of a Mumbai parking lot, and most people would have lost.

"Do you want painkillers?"

Ethan shakes his head. "I'm okay."

"You're hurt, American. Badly hurt."

He just nods. He knows, had clearly just been planning to work through it.

Sidorov changes his approach. He's been on the other side of this, knows how it feels, and if it was him he would definitely accept the pills, but if he knows one thing about Ethan, it's how stubborn he is.

"Ethan," he says gently, the first time Sidorov has ever used his first name. "I will not think any less of you if you take them."

He looks away, but finally nods. "Thanks."

Sidorov passes him the pills and Ethan swallows them dry.

He kneels on the edge of the bed and takes out the antiseptic to clean the wound. Ethan gasps in pain.

"So, you never answered my question," Sidorov says, most of his focus on still-oozing wound but wanting to distract him from the pain and maybe learn something. "What brings you to Moscow?"

"It was the first flight I could get a seat on from London."

If he was willing to risk flying in this state, and flying to Russia where they weren't exactly his biggest fans, whatever had been behind him in London must have been bad. There's nothing he can say to reassure Ethan about this, so he stays silent, keeps working. He seems to appreciate that, anyway.

He straightens for a second, rests a hand on Ethan's shoulder.

"Whoever is chasing you… they will know you're in Russia by now."

"Probably. I was never planning on being here for long." Ethan starts to sit up, but Sidorov shakes his head and puts a hand on his chest, gentle, avoiding his injuries as much as he can, but with enough to force him back down to the mattress.

"You are not leaving here yet. You won't get far in this condition."

Ethan frowns. "I'm putting you in danger from both of our governments just by being here."

"I doubt they expect you to turn up here. As far as they're concerned, we are not on good terms. Stay here. Get some rest. When you leave, you'll need all your strength."

He shakes his head. "You don't know who's after me."

"Not us this time," Sidorov says. "I'd know. Unless they ask for our help it's none of my business."

"They won't."

"Then what's the problem?"

"You don't have to do this," Ethan says, and Sidorov knows he's won, although he wonders what else has happened in Ethan's life that meant that he's so reluctant to accept help.

"I know." He shrugs, standing up, leaving no more room for argument. "I want to."

It probably doesn't take long for Sidorov to clean and stitch his wounds, but it feels like a lifetime, even with the painkillers.

Sidorov asks him if he's okay again, and Ethan lies again, says he's alright when even breathing hurts. This time Sidorov accepts his answer, though, and gets as far as the door before Ethan finds his voice again.

"You don't have to go," he says, half expecting to be ignored.

Sidorov turns, surprised. "I have to feed Myshka, but I'll be back."

Ethan lays back in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn't feel much better than he did earlier, but at least he's probably somewhere safe now if he passes out again. Sidorov doesn't take long to return. He kicks off his shoes and sits down on the bed close to Ethan, leaning back against the pillows at the end of the bed. Ethan knows how lucky he was to run into Sidorov on that train at all, he might just have bled out alone if not or, worse, the CIA might have caught up with him. That Sidorov might have anything other than a grudging tolerance for him, even after he'd visited him in the hospital all those times, hadn't even occurred to him.

Ethan reaches out for his hand and Sidorov takes it. They're both still covered in blood, his blood, but they're also both too tired to care.

"I wanted to tell you to be more careful in future back in India," Sidorov says, eyebrows knitting together with concern. "Would it have made a difference if I had?"

"Probably not," Ethan admits.

Sidorov rolls his eyes at him. "Remind me how you avoided me for so long?"

Ethan shrugs; he knows it was only luck, really, then winces. For a second he'd forgotten how much everything hurt.

He'd been relying on other people's kindness far too much for the last few days, first the woman in the Syndicate's torture cell, now a man who once threatened to torture him, even if things had changed since then.

He sits up slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, and leans into Sidorov's shoulder, even though he'd never usually let himself be this vulnerable. It's been months since he's seen anyone he trusts, and even if Sidorov doesn't quite fall into that category, he's so starved for non-violent touch he can't help himself. "Thanks for helping me out."

Sidorov gives him a slightly hesitant smile. "Don't worry about it, American."

Sidorov pulls the blankets from the bottom of the bed around them both and wraps an arm around him. Ethan looks at him questioningly and he pauses, then justifies himself.

"You've lost a lot of blood. I don't want you to go into shock so you need to stay warm."

"Just that?" Ethan says, realising he almost hoped for more.

"I would be lying if I said I've never imagined you in my bed before, American, but those times you weren't bleeding into my sheets," he says with a smirk.

"I'm sorry."

He sighs, squeezes Ethan's shoulder. "I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to be safe."

"We're spies, Sidorov. We're never safe."

Sidorov shrugs. "Better here, where I can keep an eye on you, than out in Moscow on your own."

He concedes that with a nod, leaning further into Sidorov's side. It's nice to have someone to watch his back, no matter how briefly.

"You're staying here for a few days, until I know you won't just pass out in the street. I have a few days off."

"And you're going to use them to look after me?"

"Why not?"

Ethan doesn't have an argument for that. He's not used to this treatment, not from anyone except Luther.

He straightens again with no less difficulty than the first time, and looks Sidorov in the eyes. "I never thanked you," he says. "For saving my ass on the train earlier… and for believing me, last time."

Sidorov smiles again, and Ethan isn't used to seeing that expression yet, but he's determined to see it more.

Ethan hesitates for a long second. He knows what Sidorov just said, but he also knows Russia, about how men back home tend to react to this sort of thing, too. His mouth is dry when he whispers "Can I kiss you now?"

Sidorov freezes for a split second, not expecting Ethan to say that. "Don't think you're obligated to do this, American."

"I know. I want to."

Sidorov's voice is barely louder than a breath, and Ethan can feel the words on his cheek. "Then yes. Please kiss me."

When Ethan leaves a few days later, he goes with some clean clothes and a list of old, unused safehouses the Russian government had either forgotten about or given up on. He promises to come back to see Sidorov when this is over, when he's cleared his name (again) and taken down the Syndicate, but for the first time in his career with the IMF, he thinks that maybe this mission could be impossible.

He has motivation to survive this, though. He has to win for the sake of the world, but he has a reason to make sure he doesn't die in the process. The promise of a warm bed and someone who wants to see him, wants to hold him, is enough to make him want to fight as hard as ever before, harder, even if both the Syndicate and the CIA are on his trail, even if his broken ribs hurt more with every step away from the warmth of Sidorov's arms.