A/N: *Sigh* Okay, so I have a problem. I have too many stories in my head and not enough time to write them. Currently, my muse has been obsessed with this one, and not the ones I should be finishing. *Sigh again* It's an Angel and Spike story, maybe just friendship, maybe romantic. We'll see. It has nothing to do with my Vampire/Slayer series, as this is an all-human AU piece. Apparently I'm good at those.

Hope you enjoy…

Chapter One – The Courthouse

Sighing as his phone rang once again, the dark-haired lawyer turned his chair away from the high rise window looking out over the midday LA skyline, and picked up the handset. "Liam Angelus," he answered, trying to keep the sigh from his voice.

"Oi! Angel!" an excited voice assaulted the lawyer's ear through the wire. "How's things been, mate?"

"Spike?" Angel asked, knowing the lazy British-tinged accent could only come from his former friend and covering his eyes with one hand in anticipation of what would come next.

"Yeah, it's me," Spike replied, moving on quickly. "Look, I'm callin' to ask you a favor. Yeah?"

Knowing he wouldn't like the answer, Angel asked through clenched teeth, "What is it?"

"Don't have to sound all down and put-upon, Peaches," Spike chuckled, using an old nickname that Angel was glad to be rid of now. Or, had thought he was rid of, damn it. "It'll be easy-peasy now that you're Big-shot Lawyer-man."

"What did you do this time?"

"Now why," Spike demanded, actually trying to sound put out, "would you assume I was the transgressor?"

"That's always the way it goes, Spike," Angel pointed out. "Where are you?"

"Lucky for you, mate," the man lilted, and Angel could almost see his smirk, "I'm just a couple o' blocks away. Downtown LA courthouse."

"You'll pay me this time," Angel ordered, leaving no room for argument, though he knew one was forthcoming.

"Oi! When have I ever stiffed you on the bill?" Spike asked, offended.

"Chicago," Angel shot back. "Twice in New York. That trip to Paris."

"Oh," Spike paused. "Yeah, s'pose I do owe you. Look, I got money this time. Or, I can get it anyways."

"Do you need me to bail you out again?" Angel asked, knowing the answer would be as it always was.

"Yeah, mate. That'd be lovely."

"I'll be there in a bit," Angel told Spike, hanging up roughly and wondering why he could never manage to just say, 'no,' and go on with his life whenever Spike got in trouble. He supposed it had something to do with Spike being Darla's brother. Not that Darla was in Angel's life anymore, thank God, but he'd practically been family before it had happened.

Almost shrugging on his coat before he realized it was eighty degrees out and sunny, Angel left the jacket and opted for his sunglasses instead, straightening his tie as he left his office. "Harmony," he sighed at his assistant, "I've got a personal matter to attend to. Would you make sure to call me if any Senior Partners start asking after my whereabouts?"

"Can do!" the secretary replied, all bubbly enthusiasm and cleavage. Angel shook his head, wondering if he would have to have another conversation with Harmony about appropriate work attire. The sad thing was that he knew she was wearing those clothes for his benefit, and Angel wanted nothing to do with her. Not because she wasn't attractive and not because those outfits of hers didn't affect him, but because despite her moderate efficiency as an assistant, Harmony Kendall lacked intelligence like a man with two left feet lacked grace.

Waving once more in farewell, Angel boarded the elevator and rode down to the first floor, opting to walk over to the courthouse instead of driving, and let Spike stew that much longer.

As he walked, Angel tried to remember the last time he'd seen Spike. He knew it was after the break-up with Darla, because he remembered still feeling responsible for Spike, even though he shouldn't have been anymore. Yeah, that was it. About a year ago, on a trip back home to the east coast, upstate New York, Angel had run into Spike in a bar, the younger man slobbering drunk and hitting on anything that had a pulse. And Angel knew that if he hadn't dragged Spike out of there and back to his parents' old home - which now belonged to him - to sober up, the bleach-blonde would have landed his ass in jail. Again.

That was just prior to when old Mr. Stewart had disowned his son, for the third and final time before shuffling off and leaving the family fortune only to his daughter, Darla, and his second wife, a pretty young thing named Cordelia. Angel had heard – from Spike – that the new wife was even younger than Darla, but hadn't cared enough to find out whether or not it was true. He hoped it was true and that Darla rankled at the thought that she had to share her daddy's money with some bimbo.

Sighing at these unkind thoughts, Angel reached out and yanked open the courthouse door, swearing that every time he had to come here, that solid wooden and glass door got heavier and heavier. Or maybe he just dreaded entering the building where he would have to find out what had landed Spike in hot water this time. With no one to turn to but his old pal, Angel.

Folding his sunglasses and stowing them in the pocket of his tailored suit pants, Angel walked down the long hallway of the courthouse, taking the big staircase in the center of the building down into the basement. Where they kept the criminals. Angel hadn't taken any criminal defense cases since being recruited to this new firm, Wolfram and Hart, two years ago, but he still remembered the ins and outs of the courthouse like he'd been there yesterday.

And one of those ins was the thin Hispanic woman lounging behind the bars of her reception counter, picking at her nails. Angel knew this demeanor was deceiving, as Rosa was one of the most efficient paper pushers this side of the Rocky Mountains. Hell, she'd probably forgotten twice as much as Harmony had ever learned about proper filing systems. As always, Rosa's hair was tied back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, curly graying strands escaping here and there, and her dress was floral and loose, but professional. Right down to the cotton-lace collar at her neck.

"Hi there, Rosa," Angel greeted the woman, leaning on the counter and giving her a small smile through the bars. "How are you?"

"Been better," she shrugged, only the way her eyes shot up to his face betraying how surprised she was to see him. "Thought you were done with this shit."

Chuckling, Angel replied, "I'm doing a favor for a friend."

"Would this friend happen to be a Mr. William P. Stewart?" Rosa asked, still casual as she sat up and grabbed a file from the top of her 'In' box.

"Yeah," Angel sighed. "That's him. What can you tell me?"

Clucking her tongue in disappointment, Rosa flipped through the file, finally saying, "Manslaughter. Bail's been set at two mil."

"Two million?" Angel asked, incredulous, his heart clenching as the charge sunk in through the surprise. "Who the fuck do they think he killed?"

"A guy named Riley Finn. Says here he was a private citizen, but everyone and their dog knows Finn's been working with Vice as a CI for years."

"How?" Angel asked, pinching the bridge of his nose to will away the headache blooming behind his eyes. "I mean, how does the ME say Finn died?"

"Stab wound. Broken glass to a major artery. Bled out real quick." Rose relayed the information dispassionately, like any good professional, but it irked Angel to think that Spike could be involved in something this fucked up, and Angel had to hear the details in such a clinical manner.

"Thanks, Rose," Angel sighed, slapping the edge of her counter as he stood up straight. "Might as well start making a copy for me. I'm taking the case."

"Don't need to check with your fancy new bosses?" Rosa asked, raising one eyebrow at him as she closed the case file, setting it down lightly in the middle of her desk.

"Not for this one," he told her, resisting the urge to sigh again. "He's down in Holding?"

"Yeah, should be," Rosa nodded, giving a little salute in farewell. "Be careful, Angelus."

"Thanks, Rose," Angel called back, waiting for her to buzz him through to the secure area behind the bars.

After allowing the guard to pat him down for weapons and telling the man he was Mr. Stewart's lawyer and he'd like to talk to him, please, Angel followed the guard a few cells down to the one on the end. Inside, a lithe man sat alone, swamped in his weather-inappropriate black leather duster, elbows resting on his knees as he waited. Spike's hair was still bleached-blond and slicked back, though Angel could remember a time when it had been brown and loosely curly whenever Spike let it grow too long.

Angel sighed, and Spike looked up, his expression melting from one of resigned despondency to excited relief. "Angel!" he cried, jumping to his feet and clutching at the bars between them. The cadence of his British accent, never lost after the move to the States, tickled Angel's memory, at once foreign and familiar. In some ways, it reminded Angel of his father's Irish accent, which he hadn't heard in a very, very long time. "Glad you could make it, mate!"

Angel got a better look at his maybe-not-so-former friend, whose clothes were a little ratty, a few years out of style and well-worn, but still somewhat respectable. Not that Spike had ever been close to respectable, even when he still had access to the Stewart fortune. Looking up from the heavy Docs on Spike's feet and into the man's face, Angel noticed that of all the things that hadn't changed about Spike, this had. He looked older. Worn out and run ragged. Drugs, Angel thought angrily, though he could tell Spike was stone-cold sober now.

"Spike," Angel nodded, letting his eyes soften for just a moment in concern before hardening them again. "These are some serious allegations."

"No shit," Spike agreed, reaching through the bars to touch Angel's elbow, as if to make sure he was real. "Didn't even know why they brought me in until the bail hearing this mornin'."

"They didn't tell you the charges when they arrested you?" Angel asked, eyeing Spike's hand warily and wondering if the cops had slipped up in a way he could use to their advantage.

"Sure they did," Spike shrugged, taking back his hand and shoving both into the pockets of his duster, defensively. "Don't quite remember, actually. Reckon they fucked up?"

"We'll see," Angel said, feeling his jaw clench again and trying to relax so he wouldn't worsen the headache he already had. "First thing we've got to deal with is the bail. Did you know it's set at two million?"

Spike whistled in appreciation. "Didn't notice, Ange," Spike smiled, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Was too busy chattin' up the bird they assigned as my defense."

"Is that why you called me? Because you pissed off the attorney they gave you?"

"Well, she weren't exactly on my side anymore after this morning, were she?" Spike replied, hovering somewhere between faux-chauvinistic pride and chagrin at Angel's disapproving expression. "Figured you'd do alright by me, though. For old time's sake?" Spike's expression changed again, along with his voice, Angel noticed, carefully schooled into a mask of vulnerability and hope.

"Lay off the puppy-dog eyes," Angel chided, turning away from the other man. "I already decided to take your case."

"Knew you'd come through for me, Peaches," Spike nodded, his voice low and solemn, and Angel wondered if this expression was finally the one that reflected what his friend was actually going through.

"Stop calling me that, and I'll see what I can do about lowering your bail. Even just having to put down earnest money, there's no way I can cover two million." Shaking out his hands in frustration before crossing his arms over his chest, Angel pointed out, "We might have to go to Darla for the rest."

Nodding, with a dazed, far-off look that told Angel Spike wasn't looking forward to reaching out to his sister, the blond man cursed, "Bugger."

Please review! If enough people are interested, I'll post the second chapter later this week.