It was Buffy. She was here. Not haunting him in his dreams or carrying the weight of a conversation between himself and any of the others that had known her. Buffy was here, with Spike, for the first time since he had escaped the burning pit that was hell itself. He seemed to be frozen for the longest time. In fact, if the elevator door hadn't begun to slide between the pair, Spike probably would have spent much more time staring at the very person that was responsible for a large part of the man that he was now.
Almost as though he were afraid that if, even for a second, the door managed to close between them, that Buffy would be gone entirely, Spike moved forward and stepped his way out from the elevator and into the lobby. He stuffed the cigarette back into his pocket, keeping his eyes trained on Buffy all the while. The desire to turn himself into a chimney had completely gone out the window. It hardly seemed important now that Buffy was here.
"You look..." He really couldn't find a way to describe her. And if he did, it would probably be in the form of that same bloody awful poetry that everyone seemed to be terrified of. "Nice. Do you want to sit down? Or would you prefer someplace quiet? Maybe we could walk."