The pain was terrible. So terrible that it outweighed the hard-won victory he had just achieved. Spider-Man lay motionless in the alley, broken, bruised, and bleeding. He could not even find the strength to lift his head. He was terrified that someone would find him before he would be able to move… that they would discover who he was. The battle with the Lizard was over. There would be no more, God willing. The man beneath the skin of the monster had been cured and would soon be behind bars. But in spite of this, the torn and tattered hero felt lower than he ever had before. And he wished to heaven that he was dead. He could feel his consciousness going as the dim landscape before him seemed to blur and swirl about him and slowly fade from view. And somewhere on the edge of his awareness, he heard a voice calling to him. A sweet and gentle voice.

"Spider-Man. It's alright. I'm… I'm here to help you." It was the voice of a woman. He turned his head wearily toward her but he couldn't distinguish her features. She knelt at his side, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and he shuddered with pain. He couldn't think… everything slurred together in a confusing jumble and he closed his eyes to shut it out.

"Mary Jane," he whispered, not knowing how the name came to his lips. He spoke almost subconsciously. But he could hear her gasp of surprise.

"You… you remember…" her voice trailed away.

"No," he murmured, not understanding. "No."

It didn't make sense… nothing made sense. How had she found him? How did she know he was here? And what did she mean… remember… remember what? What was there to remember?

"Neither do I," her voice had dropped to a trembling whisper and she bowed her head, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. For a long moment she remained silent. He tried in vain to move, but a sudden jolt of pain racked his body and he let himself fall back with a groan. She stood then, bending over him.

"I… I'm going to try and… get you home." With great effort, she was raising him, pulling him to his feet, draping his arm across her shoulders and supporting him around his waist. He realized vaguely that she was bracing herself on one side with a crutch. Summoning every last drop of strength in his body, he limped slowly along at her side, trying to bear as much of his own weight as he could. She was small, but she seemed strong, in spite of the fact that she herself was hurt.

It was only a few blocks from the streets where that final battle had taken place to his own apartment, thank heaven. They made terribly slow progress. Every minute or two, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against a wall as she clung to him, determined not to let go. Every step was one of agony and he stumbled often, nearly falling. But he managed by sheer force to stay upright.

She somehow knew where his apartment was. The main door was unlocked and they managed to slip inside without detection. There was no elevator and no choice left but to use the thirteen flights of stairs. How she did it, he never knew. He could barely remember that long and painful climb afterwards, no matter how hard he tried. It seemed as if it was only a few minutes somehow before he found himself in his own room. She left his side to push the door shut and bolt it. Feeling his legs give way beneath him, he fell to his knees, angry at his own weakness. Few villains had ever before had the power to reduce his strength this badly. He struggled to his feet again just as she reached him, collapsing on his bed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sinking into the chair beside the bed. "I… I don't know what to do. I'm just… I'm… I'm sorry." She was wiping away tears with a trembling hand. He wanted desperately to say something… to do something. But what? Something was terribly wrong, that he knew for sure. But his mind couldn't seem to grasp anything and so he let it go, too tired to wonder about it anymore. "I… I saw the news on tv," she continued. She seemed to be fighting for control, almost talking to herself more than him. "It was terrible… terrible. I… thought maybe I could help. So I… managed to find you and… I…" she faltered. "I don't know. I just… don't know." She had pulled a little brown book from her pocket and sat silently for a while, staring at it, tracing her fingers over the cover. But she shook her head and slipped it back into her pocket, turning to him.

"You've lost a lot of blood, Tiger," she said softly, the unfamiliar nickname seeming to come easily to her. Tiger. Where had he heard that before? He frowned beneath the mask, trying to concentrate on the shadowy echoes in the back of his mind.

She raised him to a sitting position, unzipping his costume, peeling it down to his waist. He didn't resist, falling back gratefully as she bent over him. He didn't even try to stop her when she slowly began to pull his mask up. Somehow, he knew he could trust her. But she stopped halfway, jerking her trembling hands from the mask with a sudden movement as if frightened.

"No…" she whispered, shaking her head. "No." She reached out, gently brushing her fingers against his bruised cheek. "I… I can't." She did not touch the mask again. He could barely see her through his own foggy vision and the silver-white eyepieces. He only caught a glimpse of bright red hair and blue eyes filled with tears and his heart beat faster. The red headed angel of his dreams.

He remembered the night he had sat outside her balcony, wondering why he was there. He knew that he had known her name then but, try as he would, through the dim haze of pain and half-consciousness, he could not bring it back to mind. She had become once again the unknown woman of mystery. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered vaguely if he had a concussion and how bad it must be.

Just like his dream not so long ago, after his first battle with the Lizard, he could feel her gentle hands against his skin. Cleaning his wounds so carefully that he barely felt the pain. He drifted in and out of consciousness as she worked, stitching the deep gashes with thick black thread.

"I think your ribs are broken," she told him as she wrapped his wounds. "All of them." She grimaced, feeling gently along his side. "I… I know you heal fast and I don't think there's anything I can do about broken ribs so…" her voice trailed off and she slid her hand along his arm, up towards his shoulder. "And your shoulder is out of joint," she laughed softly, without humor. "I can't believe you get yourself into these fixes…" her eyes seemed suddenly far away. "One of these days, I'll probably be putting you together like a puzzle, if you aren't more careful."** She said this so slowly, with a tone of disbelief. She froze suddenly, as if turned to stone, her face pale as ashes. She hadn't meant to say those words… they had simply come… as an echo of the past. Long ago and far away, as if in another lifetime, she had said those very words. And she had remembered. Somehow she had remembered. For the second time that day she felt a rush of hope. And yet, she told him nothing. Something held her back, something far beyond her control. It was as if she was forbidden to speak of it. Whatever it was that kept it hidden inside of her, was the same feeling that had kept her from taking his mask off. It was something that she couldn't fight. A shudder ran through her entire body and the feeling faded as swiftly as it had come. Gripping his wrist with one hand, she pressed the other to the side of his face, as if to get his attention.

"Listen… I need to move this shoulder back into place," her voice was firm and steady, although the paleness didn't leave her face. "It'll hurt bad. Just… just hold steady for me, okay?"

He nodded. It was over in a few moments… with a swift motion, she bent his arm up at the elbow, twisting his wrist out and then back, snapping the bone back into place. He cried out in pain at the impact, feeling relief in almost the next moment although he could feel himself shaking all over. She lifted his head, raising a glass of water to his lips.

"It's over now," she murmured, her voice comforting. "I… I've done all I can do."

"Thanks," he answered, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. It was all he could manage. She sat on the floor beside his bed, wrapping her arms around him and letting her head rest on his shoulder. It felt so right… so natural… so familiar… the warmth of her body against his.

She stayed there, motionless, all through the night while he felt himself passing into the first peaceful and dreamless sleep in months. When he woke, she was still there, struggling to her feet with the aid of her crutch. She bent over him once more to softly kiss his cheek… and then she was gone. If it wasn't for the stitches that lined his chest, he would have thought it was all just another dream.

**This is a line from a one-shot I wrote, "Crazy". Sorry for the self-promoting easter egg... it just sort of fit right into the story... ?