Three weeks after, Xander went to the Fish Tank. The wall-staring and the sobbing and the snot made Anya – healing, thank God – a little frantic. Also, beer: the Harris family anaesthetic of choice. And Buffy was no more absent there than anywhere else. So he went.
But Spike was there, too, wrapped in cigarette haze, cue in hand. Still creepy, toothy, leathered. Evil. But with eyes as empty as Xander felt.
Wordless, soundless, Spike held the other cue out to Xander. And, because the reason Xander'd hated him was dead; because here was a man(/monster/whatever) who understood, he took it.