The Big Bad

By Hush
Under My Skin 4

Part Four

His hands grasped pale, bucking hips with as much force as his bleedin' chip would allowed. "Spike please," she pleaded, clutching at the pale locks of his hair with begging fingers.

He withdrew his fingers and denied her the rhythm. The lips suckling at her nub eased up and he once again brought her back from the cusp of climax. "Nuh uh," he growled. "Take it back."

"I can't," she panted. Bangs slick with sweat clung to her forehead and Willow's face wore lines of strain.

"You bastard," she whimpered as the climax receded. But once again, she made no move to kick him away or escape even though it was within her power. She conceded to his mastery and submitted to his dominance and punishment in action if not words.

He wanted the words too.

Her absolute refusal to yield anything left him confused and frustrated. Angry. He was Rage Incarnate and denied. His was the face of violence, masked. He didn't understand why Willow wouldn't give him the same acknowledgment that he had bequeathed upon her in play.

"What is it with you?" he grated. "Give in."

Green eyes opened. "Are you asking or telling?"

"What the fucking difference does it make?" He couldn't understand her *inability* to submit. Willow wanted to. It was there in the way she lay prone beneath him, accepting ravages she could easily have fended off.

"It matters." Her tone was uncompromising. Spike had seen the same look in the eyes of the tortured only rarely. For a precious few, surrender simply wasn't an option. Spike would never have pegged Willow as one of the stubborn few. This wasn't the Willow Spike knew.

"It's a matter of principle," she explained. "You'll get away with murder if I let you."

"Can't," he refuted with a tinge of bitterness. "Me chip."

"Don't remind me," she moaned. "God only knows what you'd do to me if you weren't chipped."

Spike blinked. That made him think. Right before he'd acquired the device, he'd intended to drain his little minx dry. *Then*, he would have left her unturned. That wasn't the case anymore. "I wouldn't do anything too bad," he comforted. "You'd be dead an' all... But we'd be together. Forever."

"It'd be right nice, it would," he mused. The idea had remarkable appeal. If he turned Willow then she'd truly be his. In his entire existence, Spike had never been so totally alone. It didn't sit well. When Angelus' patience ran out, Spike had been created to serve as Drusilla's guardian and champion. He was accustomed to belonging. He needed to feel needed.

Willow bit her lower lip, eyes brightening with tears. She looked away. "I like living. And if you turn me, you won't like what you get. I promise you." There was so much pain, hurt, *wisdom* contained within those simple words.

"Oh, I don't know. I've heard stories about your doppelganger..." He arched insinuating eyebrows.

"Spike." She turned to look him straight in the eye. "Take my word for it. The stories couldn't begin to compare with the unpleasant reality. My 'demon' would have eaten you alive."

"Oi, no need to get personal." Privately, he conceded that she would probably be a real terror as a demon. Human, she was quite the handful. Disgruntled, he snorted and changed the subject. "Why me then?" he demanded. "If you think I'm so 'effin dangerous then why are you here?"

She grinned. "I have this *thing* for dangerous, gorgeous blondes." She trailed fingers along his cheek.

"Right on!" He chortled. "I saw the look you were givin' the Slayer. Creamed your panties just being near her, didn't you?" Inside, all of the talk of his chip rankled but he hid it well.

Willow made a face. "God, you're disgusting."

"Take it back," he demanded, switching tenaciously back to the original disagreement. She had called him her bitch. She had done it before but this time it had become an issue. This was a matter of pride. Their discussion of his chip underscored his urgent need to win her respect.


"FUCK!" He exploded, pounding his fists on the floor on either side of her head. She didn't even flinch. No fear. "Fine!" he snarled. "Throw it in my face! Spike's nothing! He can't hurt me!" He rolled away, regretting the words the second they were spoken. They betrayed his weakness.

Willow switched tactics. "Aww, come'on lover. You're my Big Bad," she teased. "Don't be all pouty. You're a frightful creature - GRRRR." She bared her teeth and mocked a growl. "I'm terrified," she assured him but the saucy smirk on her face said otherwise. Her hands were busy between them.

Spike flushed, both bashful and embarrassed that she'd gotten the better of him yet again. "Oh, go on!" he exclaimed, pretending it was all a big joke. "You're just saying that!"

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are!"

"No." She looked him in the eye. "I have absolutely no delusions about what you could do to me if and when you get that chip'n'dectomy. I'd be a fool not to fear you, Spike."

"Right," he agreed skeptically. Spike was too good a judge of character to fall for her line. Willow was saying the exact opposite of what she really felt. Spike could see it in her eyes. Oh, sure, she was afraid of what he *could* do if the chip were out. But she knew that it wasn't coming out anytime soon.

Fire flickered in her eyes. "It's true. You scare me silly," she insisted. But her fear was a pure fabrication for his sole benefit. Spike perceived pity and sympathy. She cared for him a hell of a lot more than she wanted to admit to him or herself. He was beginning to suspect that the soft-hearted witch had fallen head over heels in love with old William the Bloody.

It was the only reason he tolerated the pity, which he resented with every fiber of his being. He disliked the way she tried to deceive him too. It was just another example of her inability to open up to him, rather like her unwillingness to submit in bed. "Don't lie to me, Willow," Spike ordered, suddenly angry and weary of the games. He rolled onto his back. "You're not afraid an' you're not a very good liar, either."

She stared at him in stubborn, hurt silence. Quandary. Confusion. Inner turmoil. Spike sensed all of it through their strange rapport. She knelt before him and when she spoke, her voice trembled, "I-I need you. More than you need me. And that scares me to death because we can play all of the sex games we like but when it comes to feelings, we're not on a level playing field."

It was a concession and surrender. Spike flushed, pleased and flattered. "Aww, there now, luv." He returned to their 'bed' on the floor and took her back into his arms. He knew instinctively that they were one step away from "I need you" to "I love you" and he'd have the adoration he'd been craving.

The quickest route to a bird's heart was between her thighs. Spike's opportunistic mind made a neat transition from "I need you" to "I love you" to "Let's shag!" From his hundred plus years of ample experience with the fair sex, he knew exactly what he was expected to say in order to bridge the gap and part her thighs.

"I love you."

"Really?" Willow's green eyes opened. She stared at him with guarded skepticism. "That's awfully sudden."

"Yeah, 'course I do. Now spread 'em..." He growled low and rolled over on top of her. His cock slid between her thighs, nestling neatly against her sex. With a few quick strokes, Spike picked up enough lubrication to wedge the head of his member at her entrance. Willow whimpered and squirmed.

"Spike no," she moaned, trying to push him away. "I we can't. Not allowed...without permission." Weak, ragged struggles persisted but lacked any real conviction.

"Who's permission?" His sharp mind latched onto the utterance like prey. At the same time, he thrust forward, gaining a couple inches in her tight channel. He groaned in appreciation.

Willow yelped and twisted away. His cock slipped out. "Spike, stop it!" she hissed. "No means no."

"Your cunt is saying yes," he replied crudely.

She rolled away. "My mouth is saying no."

His denied nuts and cock imploded with pain. Christ! She was a fuckin' cock tease! "Then what the hell are we doing here?" Spike demanded. "Is this some sort of 'drop kick me knackers' game to you?"

Her face reflected panic and stress. "No! I just *can't*. We're screwing around - that's it. It's play. You knew the rules from the start! I *never* lied to you."

"Right," he drawled sarcastically. "We're doing everything but the fucking. Well I want to know who the hell it is that's dictating the rules to you. Cause it sure as hell isn't what you want."

"Spike, don't do this," Willow pleaded, rolling away. He grabbed her arm and stopped her. A jolt of pain in his skull forced him to ease his grip. "I don't want to hurt you," she cried.

It was the wrong thing to say. Spike's face froze. "What did you say?" he hissed.

She turned to look at him, glancing first to the hand on her arm and then to his face. "I don't want to hurt you," she said. Kindness and the associated pity were like holy water. They burned.

"What the fuck makes you think that *you* could hurt *me*?" The words were deadly cold and cut deep. Pain flashed in her eyes and he knew he had scored a direct hit. His most vicious instincts surfaced full force.

"Spike, don't. I understand--"


Her eyes turned hard. He had awakened the cruelty within her. "I understand that you need to be with someone."

"Like hell I do," he hissed. The very truth of her words increased the vehemence of his denial.

She ignored him and interrupted, "You don't exist without Drusilla." Spike staggered. It was too harsh for him to mouth off an immediate, flippant response.

"You're lost without her. That's why we're only fucking around," she continued. "You and I aren't friends - you said so yourself. And we'll never be lovers. Even if I could, I wouldn't, because I'd have to be a blithering idiot and a glutton for pain to even dream about going up against your ghost of Drusilla."

"Dru and I were forever." Time had frozen the moment. His response was automatic and ingrained. The truest of all he believed to be true but it had been shattered.

Willow's eyes gentled, tearing. "I know. God, I'm so sorry." He hated her pity with every fiber in his being. She rose from the floor and this time he let go of her arm.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she breathed. "Then LA."

That jarred him. "Why?" he demanded without thinking.

"Just am." She pulled on her clothes.

"I want a reason."

"Fine," she snapped. She turned to face him, holding her crossed arms at the wrist. "You want a reason, I'll give you a reason. I lied through my teeth. I'd fuck you in a heartbeat but I *can't*. Not just won't but *can't*. I want you so bad that--Jesus help me--I'd probably cut my own wrists and let you turn me if I thought for one second you'd give me half the devotion you've given Drusilla."

She'd consider being turned? Spike wondered but the rest of what she said left him distracted. "Why can't you?" he demanded. He had to know.

She hesitated and then gave him the truth. Finally. "I can't. Not without... permission."


Her next words were a noose around his neck. "Angel," she answered flatly. Anticipating his reaction, Willow leapt back as Spike exploded to his feet. All control was lost.


She might have answered if he'd kept calm but just the sound of his sire's name used in conjunction with permission to shag with his girl drove Spike over the edge. He erupted in a fury, cursing and destroying everything in his path.

Willow squeaked and ran. Spike didn't follow. The chip prevented him taking out his anger on a living person - and part of him didn't want Willow dead - but it sure as hell didn't stop him from expressing his anger on the inanimate. By the time his rage ran out, Angel's fancy living room contained nothing but shattered piles of wood and debris.

He felt empty.

The house was empty. Willow was gone and after that little demonstration, Spike could only guess if she was coming back. He wasn't sure he wanted her back.

Bleakness settled in the place of his anger. He'd sobered up just enough to stagger into the wine cellar and grab another bottle of booze. It was a good thing ol' Angelus had a decent sized collection, because Spike intended to polish off the whole thing.

He swaggered back into the empty living room. Empty. It was empty of Dru, empty of Willow, empty except for Spike and his bottle. "Stupid bitch," he cursed. "Leave! See if I care!" He uncorked the bottle and set about getting drunk off his ass.

Part Five

Spike ransacked the Crawford Street mansion from top to bottom, demolishing everything in his path. Under the best circumstances, the blonde was a restless creature and these were a lot worse than normal.

Ironically, his determined and methodical destruction led him back to the living room, where he found an old banded trunk shoved behind a busted end table. He had missed it his first time through the room.

He grabbed the trunk and hauled it out, setting it down on the fireplace. He wrenched the lid open. On top lay a set of chains. "Bleeding pouf," Spike muttered, casting them aside. [CLANK CLANK]

"Bet he can't get his rocks off without being chained up and beat." The Brit's voice turned high and girly as he dug deeper into the chest. "Oh hurt me, hurt me! *I'm SO bad!* I killed and I tortured so many people with no fashion sense!"

His voice deepened to a boom, "You naughty naughty girl! Take that! [whip noise] And that! [whip noise]" Spike found a sheath of papers tied with a red ribbon.

"Oh yes! Oh yes! Hurt me more you big bad thing!" the pantomimed feminine voice of Angel the girly mon called. "I help the hopeless and hope the helpless but no more charity work with the fashion senseless!"

"That's very admirable, little lady," the bass-voiced whip wielder of Spike's monologue replied. "Almost enough to make up for the amount of planet killing chemicals contained within your nancy-boy hair products..."

Spike trailed off, losing the thread of his anti-Angel ramble. He inhaled sharply. Something, a scent, caught at his memory. He performed a mental double take and lifted the packet of papers to his nose, sniffing. His heart ached. Drusilla... Her scent clung to the scarlet ribbon and a few dark hairs were caught in the fabric.

Tears flooded his eyes as poignant memories of Dru welled up in Spike, clogging his throat and eyes. He tore off the ribbon and shoved it into his pocket. He shifted through the papers, curious about the contents.

They were hand drawn sketches on expensive vellum and Spike recognized Angelus' handiwork. All of the subjects were familiar: Buffy, Xander, Willow, Giles, Spike and Drusilla. "Leastwise the bloke has the sense to refrain from bad self-portraits," Spike grumbled.

There were quite a few drawings of the Slayer, sleeping, fighting, mangled and mutilated: the wistful longings of his whacked out sire. Old Soul Boy could never have committed such atrocities, even on paper. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this particular patient is a unique example of a schizophrenic with multiple personality syndrome. Sinner and Saint. Bad Ass Vampire and Flouncy Nonce."

There were subtle differences in the style of the various drawings. Curious, Spike laid them side-by-side and moved on to examine others. Eventually, he formed a small pile of what he designated "Soul Boy" picts and a larger one of "The Wanker's". The distinctions only served to reinforce his impressions of the big, oafish loon. Angelus was nuts: pure and simple.

Two of Spike: a rather good caricature of him smoking, thumbs hooked arrogantly in the front pockets of his jeans and a mystically suspended cigarette dangling from his lower lip. The sketch was rendered with care and affection. It went into the Flouncy Nonce pile as fast as he could drop it. "Great Pouf always did have a thing for me," Spike muttered with as much indifference as he could muster. And a small bit of pride...

The other was a nasty depiction of Spike with a bulldog face and wheel chair hindquarters being taken for a walk by Drusilla. "Pillock," the blonde muttered, almost amused. He set it atop the large pile of Angelus' work.

It was the drawings on the bottom of the pile that ripped his heart out of his chest and shredded what was left of the non-beating organ. Depictions of his beautiful Drusilla: dancing and laughing; playing with her dolls; sprawled nude, her eyes heavy with the lethargy that followed seduction.

Spike's knuckles turned white. He knew that Angelus must have fucked Dru in order to be able to draw her like this. The nude sketch reeked of sex. Two years after the fact, it still tore Spike apart that she had cheated on him... And then left him... Dru hadn't even the common decency to kill Spike when she left. After all they'd been through together and been to one another and she'd left without staking him. She was unbelievably cruel.

At first, Spike had continued on only for the hope of winning Drusilla back. He hadn't allowed himself to think of anything else, to consider that he might *not* get her back. But as time passed that candle was flickering, going out, and he had nothing left to take its place but fading memories...and stubborn denial of the harsh reality that he was nothing without Dru.

"You don't exist without Drusilla."

"ARSE! I exist," he hissed, "Just don't 'ave much bloody direction is all."" He crumpled the drawings and through them into the fireplace. The ball of paper caught fire and burned. Pictures of Dru, going up in flames, just like their relationship. It was symbolic.

Spike watched them burn for a second and then shouted, "Fuck!" What the hell was he doing burning pictures of his Dark Queen?! Grabbing for the drawings, Spike thrust his arm into the fireplace. His arm caught fire and he had to pound it out. It is too late for the drawings. They were ash. He had nothing left but regrets and ash.

"You're lost without her."

"Not like it much matters," he answered Willow's voice in his head. Without the chip, he could have gone somewhere else, might have started over. Maybe. At least he wouldn't have been stuck hanging out near the Hellmouth -- near the very group of people he hated most -- in order to be near the last happy place he had been with Drusilla.

He wasn't fooling anyone though. Willow had a pretty good handle on the truth and so did Spike despite her kind hearted attempts to protect him. Spike often talked big about the chip's removal but odds were that it wasn't coming out. The chip -- and not being able to kill -- was the end of the rope, the end of a lot of stuff, for Spike.

He didn't have anyone left he could trust to do brain surgery on him even if the chip could be removed without killing him. The only ones Spike had ever trusted -- Angelus and Drusilla -- had betrayed him. His best friend and his girl... It was the oldest, saddest cliché of a chap being turned into a cuckold and it had happened to The Big Bad. "What a farce," he muttered.

For Drusilla, Spike made a thousand excuses. Drusilla acted on impulses; emotionally, she was a child.

She had been Angelus' lover and childe. The right bastard had driven her insane, twisting her mind into his own warped creation. Angel had known just how to manipulate Dru, who couldn't possibly have understood the full ramifications of her actions. Angelus was one hundred percent to blame.

Nothing the demonic bastard had ever done to Spike -- the abuse, the cruel games - had ever compared with what Angelus had done to Dru. Spike had suffered for Dru. He had hurt inside over things that were done to her long before he became a vampire. He had bled for her, worshipped her, and sustained her with unwavering strength when she was too weak to continue. And in return...

She betrayed him.

He cringed and inflicted the burning truth on himself yet again. She betrayed him. No more excuses, no more remorse, no more whinging and whining. Drusilla Betrayed Him. Spike tried the words out and reached for the closest piece of kindling on the woodpile. He selected a piece of wood long and sharp enough to serve.

Drusilla BETRAYED Him.

And now, in its diabolically winding way, history was repeating itself. Pansy-souled Angel was taking away someone Spike cared about and he couldn't even understand how or why it was happening. It was Drusilla all over again.

Spike's resentment built. The longer he stood there clutching the makeshift stake, the deeper his bitterness spread, seeping like venom through his veins. It was aimed not just at Angel but at Willow too because she was letting it happen. She was a willing accomplice in this second betrayal, and this time, there were no excuses.

How was it that the bleeding pillock could do this to him twice? Soulless, Angelus had stolen his Black Rose. Souled, he was taking away Spike's human lover. From wheelchair to chip, Spike felt helpless. No matter how hard he tried or what he did, it was futile. He just couldn't win. The first time, his opponent had been physically stronger. This time, he possessed a humanity Spike lacked.

His teeth clenched. Willow didn't have to allow this. She wanted it or it wouldn't be. His Red had already proven herself too stubborn and willful for anything resembling coercion. Willow, like Dru, intended to betray him.

"Women!" Spike scowled at the fire. "Bitches. Every last one of 'em." He brought the stake up. He was only finishing what Drusilla had started...

Giles' clear voice filled the room, "'In revenge and in love woman is more barbarous than man.' Are you going to bloody well get it over with or stand there all day talking to yourself?"

Startled, Spike whirled. "Nietzsche was an arse." He glared at the Watcher and casually tossed the stake into the fireplace like that was what he had intended to do all along. "What the hell are you doing here, Sunshine?"

Giles strolled into the center of the demolished room. "I see you've been redecorating." Spike refused to reply and the older man shrugged and continued. "I've been hearing rather odd reports of Willow's behavior - and yours. The others asked me to investigate."

"Got sent into the lion's cave cause you're the old fogey an' none of 'em had the knackers?" Spike interpreted.

"Quite," Giles agreed dryly. "However, all of the signs indicate that something is amiss."

"What signs?" Spike interrupted.

The Watcher hesitated. "Well... There's your unusual um 'relationship', of which I've heard some of the more unsavory details..."

"Bugger!" He snorted. "Red and I play at a bit o' S&M an' they send you to investigate? What the hell is wrong with you people?! Get a life!"

Giles pointedly ignored his interruption. "And Willow has been exhibiting... uncharacteristic behavior."


"Nothing specific but she hasn't quite been herself," the Watcher said. "We think she may be possessed."

"Really?" He deadpanned skepticism. "How so? The chit seems perfectly fine to me." Suspicions began to coalesce in Spike's mind. Willow - his Willow -- wasn't *their* Willow. Spike bounced with an explosion of pure glee. Hot Damn but his bit o' fluff was a She Demon!

"Are you all right?" Giles looked at him strangely.

"Fine." Spike immediately shucked the bouncing. The Scoobies were on to his She Demon, probably with goody good intention of "fixing" her, and turning her back into a well-balanced Wiccan. It was exactly the opposite of what Spike wanted so he had a vested interest in protecting Red from their meddling.

"Just thinking 'bout it but I really can't think of anything out of the ordinary that might make lead you to that sort of conclusion," Spike volunteered. "What'd she do?"

The Watcher was so easily led. Sure enough, Giles began to pace and fell into lecture mode. "Well, it's hard to pin down. She's been more reclusive. Standoffish really. We think she might be possessed... Blah blah blah..."

Spike listened to the pillock witter in annoyance. On and on and on... Finally, he made a rude, loud sound. "Oi! So she's kept her own company for a few days an' you're ready to call in the Exorcist? Remind me not to befriend any of you chaps."

Giles turned red. "Excuse me but this is quite serious." He glared at the blonde vampire.

"Oh, well I'm *so* sorry," Spike drawled. "But I don't give a toss what you an' the Slayer chums are up to."

Giles fumed. "So you don't give a damn about Willow at all despite the intimate relationship you share?" He pinned Spike with his eyes.

Unfazed, Spike stared right back with an unconcerned expression.

"Has she killed anyone? Spewed vomit? Spun her head in circles? Maybe some obscene Latin?" he asked, pretending to be helpful.


"Fear of crosses, holy water, the bible?" Spike recited. He examined his fingernails. The black chipped polish was wearing off.

"N-no, none of that." Giles' body temperature continued to increase to the point where it was radiating waves of heat. He wasn't comfortable and Spike had neatly backed the Watcher into a corner. "I did receive an odd phone call," he sputtered defensively. "Monday night. I really didn't think much of it at the time."

"Oh?" Casual on the outside, Spike went on alert.

"From Angel."

"Well, there's a bloke who needs help from the Slayer," Spike agreed. "Preferably, the stake-through-the-heart variety."

Giles cleared his throat and ignored him again. "Angel called to check up on Willow. He claimed-" Spike heard air quotes around the 'claimed', telling him that Giles hadn't believed the LA vampire. "-that Cordelia had a vision of Willow being eaten by a-"

The Watcher frowned, struggling to recall. "A big vampire with sharp pointy teeth."

"Oi!" Spike exclaimed. "That's half o' Sunnyhell."

"Quite." Giles hesitated. "Angel was...extremely drunk."

"The poufter? Drunk?" Spike expressed his disbelief with his eyebrows. "He's a tea totaler, mate."

"I know." Giles paced and rubbed his brow. "Which is why this whole thing is rather disturbing."

"Real disquieting, it is." Spike extracted a smoke from his pocket and lit up. Puffing thoughtfully, he watched the Watcher while he sorted the pieces of the puzzle he possessed. Things were starting to come together but there were more gaps than pieces that fit.

Mentally, he ticked off what he knew. A) Monday night, Willow has confessed to having a dominatrix relationship with Angel. Not that Spike believed her but he had found the idea of a whipped, chained Angel immensely amusing. At least, three days ago he had found the thought entertaining. Now, he found it offensive.

Spike's mind skidded off on a tangent. How the hell had he gone from amused & gleeful to hurt & jealous in thirty-six hours? He wondered but the answer was fairly obvious. The 'She-Demon' possessing Willow had gotten under his skin.

Back to what he knew. B) Possessed She-Demon Willow had first manifested right after she returned from Sunnydale on Monday morning. Angelus had called Sunnydale checking up on her Monday night. Angel had some sort of hold on Willow to the point where he had to keep track of her whereabouts.

C) Willow professed to being unable to shag without Angel's permission. She wanted Spike -- "needed" in her own words -- and gott hotter and hornier than a cat in heat when he touched her. Her denials were forced.

For the first time Spike considered that maybe Willow wasn't a willing participant in her deception and... Betrayal. What other word was there for it? Collusion with Angel could only be disloyalty and treachery. She knew how he felt about her. (He assumed and moved on, not wanting to examine feelings he didn't actually understand himself.)

So, basically, Angelus was fucking with Spike's woman. AGAIN. Reputedly with her permission but everything he learnt brought that into question. Did Willow belong to Angel?

Bollocks! His mind screamed the refutation. She was Spike's! Since her arrival, the little She-Demon had accepted Spike as her lover in every word and deed. Angel was lifting his leg on Spike's girl again, and Spike wasn't standing for it.

He would rip Angel a new arsehole and teach the wanker to keep the hell away from Spike's woman but otherwise the blonde found the new development pleasing. He liked his slinky little sex kitten a damn sight better than the old witch.

"Are we done?" Giles interrupted Spike's thoughts.

The blonde glared at him in annoyance. "Yeah, we're done. And just so you know," he added. "Your half-arsed theory about Willow sounds like a load of shit to me. Just my humble opinion."

"Thank you ever so much," Giles answered dryly.

"Hey! You're the one bothering me!" Spike called after the departing Watcher. The second the mortal was gone, Spike headed for the garage. He lowered the Thunderbird down off its jacks and began searching for the black paint necessary to sunblock the windows.

William the Bloody was going to LA to reclaim what was rightfully his. He and Angel were going to have a CONFRONTATION.