A/N: I've posted a heafty 410K words total with this chapter! Go me!

Of Innocence and Alibis

Chapter 5 - Acceleration

Darla's bail money posted the next day, so Angel picked Spike up from jail first thing in the morning, waiting while his friend collected his things from the guard, everything stuffed into a sad manila envelope. "Oi, Angel," Spike greeted him with a sharp nod, digging through his things and replacing them one at a time in their proper pockets as they walked together. "Thanks for comin', mate."

"Sure," Angel nodded, leading the way toward the parking lot and trying not to notice how defeated his friend looked. "You'll come stay with me, okay, Spike? Just for now, until we get this whole thing cleared up."

"Whatever you say, Angel," Spike nodded, flicking a silver lighter at the cigarette hanging from the edge of his mouth.

"When have you ever said, 'whatever you say,' to me, Spike?" Angel asked, smacking the blonde on the back, concerned about him. "You're supposed to tell me to sod off and then convince me to go drinking with you."

"I can if you want," Spike growled, taking the passenger side of Angel's car and slumping down into the seat heavily. "But I'm not really in the mood, yeah?"

"Okay," Angel replied wearily, getting in and starting the engine, rolling down Spike's window so the smoke wouldn't pollute his car more than necessary. "We've got a few errands to run before I can take you home so you can get cleaned up. Alright?"

"Sure," Spike nodded, tapping the ash from his cigarette as they drove away and staring off into the distance.

Angel hated this attitude, mostly because he didn't understand it. Did something happen? Would Spike resent it if Angel asked? He was usually pretty forthcoming about … well, about everything. After at least ten minutes of silence, Angel broke, which was unusual for him, since generally he couldn't get enough silence. "Spike," he growled, pulling over and glaring at his friend. "What is it? What's going on?"

"Listen, mate," Spike sighed, fishing out and lighting another cigarette, "I'm thinkin' we have to find a way around this whole alibi bugaboo."

"Why? If it keeps you from being charged with murder, we'll drag the whole ugly business out into the light."

"No, but Ange," Spike huffed, turning in his chair to face Angel, "I don't want that! I mean …" He snorted, chuckling ruefully, "Da always told me there were consequences to my actions."

"Yeah," Angel agreed. "But these are the wrong consequences. Taking the blame for something you didn't do?"

"If this comes out," Spike replied, pointing one finger at Angel before taking another trembling drag on his cigarette, "sure the prick in the big wig will look bad, but guess what else, love? I'll look even worse, which means Darla looks bad, my Da's company looks bad, and Mother as well. And you, you ponce! You'll lose your cushy job over this!"

Confused, Angel faced forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel. "None of those things mattered to you before."

"Maybe," Spike muttered, turning to face out his window. "Maybe I've been shown the light, Angel. Maybe they matter now."

Angel furrowed his brow and stared at what he could see of the side of Spike's face. None of this made any sense. Spike's personality didn't just turn off and on like this. Unless, the two days he'd spent locked up had taken him right into the middle of withdrawal from something. "Have you been using drugs?" he asked all of a sudden.

"What?" Spike shot back, turning back to meet Angel's eyes furiously. "Unless alcohol and fucking count as drugs, which maybe they should, then no! Why the bloody hell would you ask me that?"

"It's the only thing that made sense!" Angel shouted back. "I've never seen you so fucking depressed, so I figured you were coming down off something!"

Angel and Spike stared at one another for at least ten seconds before the blonde broke out into a fit of low chuckles. "You're a soddin' piece of work, you know that Angelus?" he crowed, covering his eyes with one hand and shaking his shoulders with laughter.

Though still confused, Angel laughed along quietly with his friend, glad he was acting more like his old self. As he pulled back onto the road, the lawyer came to the conclusion that something else must have happened while Spike was locked up. But, he figured if he wanted an honest answer, instead of a teasing response, he'd do better to ask Spike later

"I am not letting you dress me in something that poncey, Angel." Spike cried, dubiously eyeing the slacks and dress shirt Angel held up for his friend.

"You have to wear something," Angel pointed out angrily, sick of shopping with this man after only ten minutes. "And you're twenty-five years old, Spike. I'm not buying you a shirt that says, 'Bite Me'."

"I don't need clothes, Ange. I have plenty."

"Just," Angel sighed, exasperated with his friend's stubbornness, "take them, Spike. You need more than two changes of clothes if you're staying at my house. I don't want you stinking up the place."

"Prissy, fat-headed ponce," Spike muttered, snatching the clothes from Angel's hand and stalking over to the fitting rooms. Angel followed slowly, giving his friend some time and space to cool down. This really had to be done, especially if there were going to be any pre-trial proceedings. Angel didn't know of any judges in this district who wouldn't be swayed by a clean-cut appearance, and if that could end this headache sooner rather than later, so much the better.

Spike gave Angel one last scowling glance before picking a room and shutting the door behind him, leaving Angel to slump down into one of the waiting chairs. "I'm not paying you back for these, mate," Spike called through the wooden ventilation slats of the door between them.

"I'm not asking you to," Angel replied. Spike had always been weird about money. He didn't hesitate to ask Angel to represent him without compensation time and time again. He didn't mind when Angel paid the bar tab or took them out to eat. But Spike did mind when Angel wanted to loan him money or wanted to buy him things like this. It hadn't happened very often, but Angel knew nonetheless that this shopping ordeal was going to grow even more taxing before they were done.

"Hey, love?" Spike called out again. "How the bloody hell does this thing work?"

"What thing?" Angel asked, sitting forward in his seat and trying to ignore the way his friend addressed him. "It's just pants and shirts, Spike. I'm pretty sure you know -"

Angel cut himself off when Spike opened the door, still wearing his own jeans with one of the shirts Angel had picked out, open from collar to waist. Spike's chest was an expanse of pale flesh, much more defined than the last summer they'd spent together. Since the last time Angel had seen Spike with his shirt off. And now, Christ, Angel couldn't help but look. And then imagine what it would taste like running his tongue down...

"Ange?"

"What?" Angel replied, tearing his eyes upwards, towards his friend's face. Where they belonged. And no other thoughts belonged. Just Spike's face, and that was it.

"I asked you how this collar works. It's all tacked down. What if I wanted to wear a tie?"

Angel laughed, trying to squelch his sudden nervousness. "When have you ever wanted to wear a tie?"

"Well, I'll have to if you're gonna take me out for lunch, won't I? I'm starving. And if you're buyin' me these new clothes that I don't want, we might as well justify the expense, yeah?"

"By adding on further expense by eating somewhere with a dress code?"

Spike shrugged before flicking his eyes down toward his collar. "So? How does it work?"

Stepping closer so he could get a better look, Angel lifted one edge of Spike's collar. "There's a little button under here," he told Spike, undoing the fastened edge and concentrating on hoping Spike couldn't hear how loud his heart was beating.

"Oh!" Spike grinned, his eyes faltering for a second when they met Angel's. But then, Spike's smile reformed as he stood in front of the mirror in his dressing room, undoing the other side and flipping up his collar. Suddenly, the blonde assumed a "Rock and Roll pose" complete with punk sneer and air guitar and Angel felt himself laughing in response, the tension between them broken.

"Go get me a tie and a jacket, yeah?" Spike ordered, standing straight again and sniffing at his reflection in the mirror as he started doing up the buttons of his shirt.

"Fine," Angel agreed, glad his friend seemed to be happier than he was earlier in the car. A depressed Spike was just ... wrong.

Angel managed to get a few steps away before Spike called out again, "And some knickers! Unless you fancy me tryin' on all these slacks in my current state."

Angel halted in his tracks and tilted his head, trying to focus on what he needed to from that sentence while ignoring the rest. It was just Spike being gross, and nothing else. Nothing else, whatsoever.

As they sat down at a table on the main floor of Café Henri, Spike asked Angel, "D'you think this counts as a business expense?"

"Well," Angel replied, taking his menu from the hostess, "since you're not paying me, I doubt it."

"I said I could get money this time," Spike replied, frowning down at his plate. "And I will."

"How?" Angel asked. "Darla's not giving you any more money. And don't even think about asking your mother. Her position is precarious enough as it is." Looking around, he continued, "And why are we seated at a table for four?"

"Spike?" A young woman called out, waving excitedly from the waiting area. The first thing Angel noticed about her was how wide her smile was, full of pearly white teeth. She had dark hair and tan skin and makeup that made her eyes look huge, while the dress she wore was yellow-gold and very fashionable, showing off her chest tastefully. And then, the last thing Angel noticed about the woman was the weedy man in glasses following her. "Spike!"

Standing up to greet them, the blonde cleared his throat and said, "Hullo, Cordelia," with a polite nod of his head. Angel felt his eyebrows rise up in surprise, catching his friend's eyes in a silent question of, "What the hell is going on?"

"This here's Liam Angelus," Spike pressed on, introducing him to the bubbly brunette.

"Uh, hi," Angel muttered, shaking the woman's hand and sighing as she took the seat next to him. "You can call me Angel."

"Ooh, boy!" Cordelia smiled, sitting down with her elbows on the table, hands cradling her jaw as she looked up at him. "If I hadn't heard Will talk about you from time to time, big guy, I would be sure that was some lame-ass pickup line."

Sitting down, and shooting an angry glance over at Spike, Angel assured her, "It wasn't."

The other newcomer, still standing, cleared his throat, drawing Cordelia's attention so she cried, "Oh! This is Wesley Wyndam-Price, my attorney."

"Nice to meet you gents," the man said with an over-eager smile and enthusiastic handshakes for both of them as he sat. "William? And Angel, was it?"

Angel nodded and sent another angry look toward his friend, which finally got Spike to open his mouth and explain. "While we were shoppin' for the duds, Ange, Cordy here called me 'cause she was town. Thought I'd invite the step-mum for lunch, catch up a bit, you know?"

"Yeah," Angel replied slowly, eyeing the woman and her lawyer again. "Do they know your big news?" he asked Spike.

"What?" Cordelia asked, matter-of-factly. "That poor Spikey here's on trial for a homicide? We know all about it, don't we, Wes?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," the British attorney replied, pulling a file folder from his briefcase. "Why, I've got the case file right here. Damn tight spot you're in, my friend."

Completely flabbergasted, Angel asked him, "Are you taking over?" Spike didn't want Angel representing him anymore? He didn't want Angel because he couldn't pay, and this idiot was the one Ms. Trophy Wife picked out? What the fuck?

"No, no, nothing like that," the other man assured him with a smile. "I'm simply here in an advisory capacity, since I am not licensed in California."

"God, I missed it here," Cordelia blurted out all of a sudden, her eyes out the windows, watching the people walk by. "I'm a creature of the sun, by nature, you know."

"Is that so?" Spike asked her with a smile and Angel couldn't believe they'd changed the subject on him. "Tired of livin' in cloudy ol' New York?"

"Ha!" Cordelia replied, turning back to the men at the table and setting a hand on Angel's upper arm as she took a breath to speak. "At least your father didn't drag me back to 'merry England' like he promised once or twice! I think I would have died!"

"It's not that bad…" Wyndam-Pryce muttered under his breath, still shuffling through the papers in his hands, as if he needed something to do so he wouldn't have to join in the small talk.

"Can we get back –" Angel started, when suddenly, a man called out across the room.

"Angelus? Is that you?"

Turning, Angel saw a dark-haired man, lean and in his mid thirties, stand up from a table across the way and stride over, holding out his hand. Angel shook it reluctantly and stood to greet the newcomer. Of all the people to show up just then it had to be, "Gary! It's good to see you!"

"You too, Angel," the man replied with a grin as they shook hands. "It's been awhile since our last project, hasn't it? I know Liddy has missed seeing you around the house lately."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Angel replied, clenching his jaw and trying not to give away the fact that this project of Gary's had nothing to do with his occupation. "I guess I just got busy with other things."

"Of course!" Gary replied, his eyes flicking up and down Angel's body once, very quickly. "Hey, I've got a new project you might be interested in. Would you mind if I stole you away for a few minutes to discuss it?"

Angel huffed, caught between seeming rude because he left his party and rude because Gary had asked to talk to him so deftly. Eventually, Cordelia waved him on and said, "Pft, go ahead. Take a few minutes. We'll order you something interesting."

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes at Spike before gesturing for Gary to lead the way from the restaurant. Once outside, Angel turned an annoyed glare at his companion. "Really? We couldn't just talk about this later over the phone?"

"You won't take my calls anymore," Gary complained, reaching out to touch Angel's arm before he flinched away.

"Yeah," Angel growled, turning and pacing away a few steps before coming back. "I wonder why that is?"

"She doesn't have to know…"

"Gary!" the lawyer scolded. "She's your wife and I'm not doing anything she doesn't know about in advance. I don't do the whole cheating thing."

"Shit, Angel," the man complained. "It's not that big a deal!"

"It is when Liddy said she was done, that she didn't want me coming over anymore. If she's out, then I'm out, Gary. It's as simple as that." No matter how much he really needed to get laid so he would stop lusting after people who were completely inappropriate targets, Angel wouldn't hurt Liddy, or anyone, like that. Not after what Darla did to him.

"But –"

"I don't fucking have time for this. Do me a favor would you?" Angel asked, grabbing the door handle that led back into the restaurant. "Don't talk to me again. Find someone else, because I'm done!"

Angel tried to school his face into something other than the severe annoyance he felt for having to deal with that guy again. Usually couples were so easy. Just one night here and there, no strings. Problem was, Angel didn't realize until a few nights in that Gary wasn't interested in his wife anymore, if he even had been in the first place. And Angel wanted nothing to do with that keg of powder when it finally went off.

When Angel rejoined the table, he grabbed Spike's whiskey and took a big gulp, setting the empty glass down in front of his friend and saying, "Thanks."

"Project not something you wanna get into, mate?" Spike asked, eyeing his empty glass and waving to one of the waiters.

"Sorry about that. Guy won't take a hint," Angel said, explaining, "Consultation, you know. Not really allowed by my firm."

"Which is?" Wesley asked, peering at Angel over his tea as he sipped it.

"Wolfram and Hart," Angel replied. "And while we're on the subject, just what the hell is going on here?"

Cordelia smiled that thousand-watt smile again and patted the back of Angel's hand, saying, "Well! Spike gave me a call yesterday, to ask if I could help with his attorney fees. I said of course, but you have to understand, I don't know you, Angel. I have to make sure my money is going somewhere worthwhile. Hence," she made a Vanna White-type gesture to present, "Wesley!"

"And you think he's…"

"He's gonna help," Cordelia insisted, and Angel wanted to argue, but something about this woman's tone or voice or mouth made it difficult to get a word in edge-wise. Which made it difficult to point out that he did, in fact, know what the hell he was doing.

When Angel and Spike pulled into the parking garage below Angel's apartment building, the blonde finally broke the silence they'd found themselves in after leaving the restaurant. "Sorry about that, mate. I'd forgotten how much that bint likes to hear her chin wag."

"Seriously?" Angel asked, pulling into his spot, number eighteen. "How could someone ever forget that? And the babysitter? God, Spike! If anyone else pulled this shit on me, I'd be out the door in a heartbeat. It's a good thing for you we're practically family. "

Angel put the car in park and as he got out, he thought he heard Spike mutter, "Not nearly," but when he looked back, the blonde was turned away, getting out his own door.

"Ange?" Spike asked on the way to the elevator, and Angel turned back to look at his friend, but something else caught his eye.

A dark figure slipped up behind Spike, a small knife flashing in the orange garage lighting. "Behind you!" Angel cried, adrenaline surging all of a sudden at the attack, making his heart pound viciously and his lunch want to acquaint itself with the floor.

Luckily, Angel's warning came in time, and Spike was able to dodge the blade by twisting his hips just so the weapon missed its mark."Bloody hell!" he cried, dodging another attack and then punching the mystery man in the face. The man staggered very briefly before resuming his attack, but by that time, Angel had gotten close enough to do something. He grabbed the man's knife hand with his left hand, holding that arm down tightly while Angel's right fist came down hard on the man's cheek.

"Ha!" Spike crowed as the man staggered again, kicking at the back of one of the guy's knees so he went down, Angel still holding a tight grip on his knife hand.

"Get the knife!" Angel cried to his friend, hitting the attacker in the head again with his free hand, dodging the rest of the flailing limbs as best he could.

Less carefully than Angel would have liked, Spike pried the man's fingers apart, taking the blade away while Angel hit the man again and again, every time he tried to retaliate. But then, the blonde surprised Angel by grabbing his attacker's hair and pressing the knife against the man's neck. He stilled immediately and Angel grew worried at the predatory look in his friend's eye.

"What did you think, mate?" Spike asked with a snarling chuckle. "You sneak up on me, stab me in the back, and we're just gonna let you get away?"

"Do you know him?" Angel asked, still holding on tightly to that one arm and trying to take in what the guy looked like so he could identify him later if necessary. He had scraggly-curly light brown hair, which was receding from his forehead, and a very straight nose, with a little bulb on the end. Sunken cheekbones, but strong chin. Eyes more furious than afraid.

"'Fraid I don't, love," Spike replied, tugging at the guy's hair again. "So?" he asked the man kneeling between him and Angel. "What say you, bad boy? What's the game here?"

"I just –" the man stuttered, and Angel frowned as deeply as he'd ever in his life when he say a tiny drop of blood escaping the skin under the knife. "I just hit who they tell me to."

"Jesus Christ, Spike," Angel breathed, meeting his friend's blue eyes with his own. "Who would put a hit out on you? Don't tell me you went to Vegas again."

"How do we know he wasn't after you? I'm sure you've plenty of old clients who you couldn't spare from some time in the Big House. Besides, bookies don't get you stabbed…"

"Dead men don't pay out," Angel agreed, twisting the man's arm just a little bit farther. "So," he asked the stranger, "who were you after?"

"Fuck you," he growled, spitting near Angel's shoes and the lawyer saw his friend take a deep breath as if he was about to do something drastic, so the lawyer punched the man once more, rendering him unconscious and thus, no longer a threat whose throat Spike looked like he might cut if he got agitated enough.

Letting the body fall on one side, and the knife fall on the other, Spike looked up at Angel, their eyes meeting for a long time before Spike breathed out, "Bloody fuckin' hell. How'd you know how to do that?"

A/N: Yay! Another chapter completed. Let me know what you thought, please! Reviews keep me writing, you know...

Also, if you haven't yet, be sure to check out my Spangel series (more info on my Profile page). This weekend, I started posting a Connor-centric future fic in that universe called "No One Can Walk Alone" and I hope you go check that out!

Thanks, everyone, for reading and for all the reviews!