Hey guys! I had a dream about this one last night, but I'm not sure about it. If there's enough of a response, I'll do everything in my power to continue it. Deal? Great. Thanks for reading, and please review!
~Erika

Neal's heart pounded as he raced through the streets of New York, his bare feet flying over the pavement, his eyes wide with fear. His pajama pants fluttered in the wind he created as he fled. The conman risked a glance over his shoulder. He didn't see anyone, but he knew better than to take that for granted; just because he didn't see anyone, didn't mean no one was there.

"Neal!" Neal skidded to a stop when he heard someone shout his name ahead of him. He saw Peter getting out of his car, which was parked at the curb at the end of the block. In a split second, the consultant put two and two together; he had been running blind for God-knew-how-long, so the odds were that he over-stepped his radius, the Marshalls had called Peter, and told him where he could cut him off.

Neal hesitated, thinking that maybe his friend could help. No, he told himself firmly. Don't drag Peter into this! It's not safe!

"Neal, what are you doing?" Peter demanded, advancing towards him. The agent noticed the fear in his friend's eyes, and he tensed.

Neal, panicked, took a hesitant step back, his heart racing. He glanced behind him and then back at Peter, trying to make a decision.

Peter saw the deer-in-the-headlights look on Neal's face and was put even more on edge. "Neal..." Peter warned. "Don't do it..."

Neal was wound like a spring, and cast another quick glance behind him before turning and once again locking eyes with Peter. Then, without warning, he turned and darted out into the street...

...completely unaware that a car had been racing toward him.

"Neal, look out!" Peter shouted, horrified.

In the middle of the street, Neal froze, his eyes wide with fear as he was caught in the headlights, reminding Peter even more so of a deer than before. Both agent and conman had a sickening realization: the car wasn't going to stop. Neal couldn't make his legs move. He was glued to the spot. He could only brace himself for the impact.

The car slammed into Neal at about twenty-five miles per hour. The conman felt as if the bones in his legs had shattered as he was propelled over the windshield, breaking it with his body before rolling over the roof of the car and finally tumbling off the back and landing hard on the blacktop, whacking his head in the process. He was unconscious instantly.

"Neal!" Peter cried, running toward his fallen friend as the car that may have claimed his life sped away; it hadn't even slowed down. The agent turned and tried to get a plate, and managed to memorize it just before it vanished from sight. Then Peter turned all his attention to Neal. He dropped to the ground beside him, the color draining from his face as it had from Neal's. There was a large, deep gash in his friend's head. Blood stained his skin as well as the ground beneath him. His right leg was bent at an odd angle, and his left arm looked dislocated. His friend's body was broken so badly it made his heart skip a beat. Frantically, Peter felt for a pulse. He was relieved when he found one.

"Thank God," Peter muttered, whipping out his cell phone and dialing 9-1-1. "Hold on, Neal," he ordered. "Just hold on, ok?"

Neal didn't respond, as Peter expected. A couple minutes later, an ambulance pulled up, and Peter watched as his unconscious friend was loaded inside and carried away...

Peter stared down at Neal's comatose form lying on the hospital bed, his pale skin blending in with the crisp white sheets. The agent shook his head, still trying to make sense of what happened. He turned when he heard Jones, Diana, and Hughes make their way into the room. All three agents froze when they saw their friend and colleague in such a harsh state. There was a four-inch-long gash in Neal's head, and several scratches further marred his face. His left arm was immobilized by a splint. He had broken a couple of ribs, and his right leg, although earlier had seemed like it was broken, was luckily just a sprained knee.

"What the hell happened, Burke?" Hughes demanded.

"I honestly don't know," Peter shook his head. "I got a call from the Marshalls around one in the morning, and they told me that Neal was outside of his radius. They gave me directions to where he was, I went there and I saw Neal running down the street wearing his pajamas. He was barefoot, for crying out loud! When I told him to stop, he looked at me, and he looked terrified. He was running from someone. I know it. And the car that hit him...it didn't even slow down."

"What the hell is going on...?" Diana muttered.

"Well, it looks like only Neal is going to be able to tell us that," Jones sighed.

"True," Hughes agreed. "Peter, on the phone you said that you had a plate for the car?"

"Yeah," Peter confirmed.

"Good," Hughes nodded. "Then until Caffrey wakes up, we work on that. Ok?"

"Reese," Peter protested, glancing at his unconscious friend. "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay here."

Hughes paused, looking over at Neal before returning his gaze to Peter. After a moment, he nodded. "We'll let you know what we find," he promised. Peter nodded his thanks, then watched as Jones, Diana, and Hughes left the room. When he was alone, he let out a weary sigh and collapsed into a chair beside Neal's bed. Now it was time for the hard part: the waiting.

The next morning, Peter made his way into the cafeteria, dark circles under his eyes, his muscles aching, and in desperate need of some coffee. It was so early that he didn't have to wait in line for coffee. As soon as he paid for his drink, Peter was surprised to see Jones striding toward him.

"Peter," Jones greeted him. "Sleep well?"

"Hardly," Peter sighed, taking a sip of the hot, though not very good, coffee. "You get anything from the car?"

"It was found abandoned about two miles from the crash site," Jones told him. "It was reported stolen about three days ago."

"So this was premeditated," Peter sighed. "Great."

"Excuse me," the two agents turned to see a man in a lab coat standing before them. The man turned to Peter, "Special Agent Burke?"

"Yes," Peter confirmed.

"Hi, my name's Dr. Roy Stevens," the man introduced himself, extending a hand first to Peter and then to Jones. "I'm Neal's doctor."

"Has there been any improvement?" Jones asked.

"Yes, actually," Dr. Stevens nodded. "Neal is actually awake, bu—"

Peter and Jones didn't let him finish. Peter put his coffee down on the table behind him and then he and Jones started racing back to Neal's room.

"Agent Burke!" the doctor tried to call them back, but neither agent wanted to hear what he had to say.

Seconds later, Peter and Jones burst through Neal's door. When they saw their friend's eyes open and alert, both men smiled.

"Neal," Peter sighed. "How're you feeling?"

There was not one spark of recognition in Neal's eyes upon seeing his friends.

"I'm sorry," Neal said slowly. "Do I know you?"

"Very funny, Caffrey," Jones chuckled. "Now what happened to you? Why did you run?"

Neal's brow furrowed, and he looked confused as his brain struggled to understand what was going on. "Who in the hell is Neal Caffrey?"