Aziraphael had changed his mind,
halfway to the door, and diverted to the Bar.
"A room key if you'd be so good, dear," he murmurs, stroking the surface gently, and one obligingly pops into existence almost directly under his hand - something of his impatience might just have transmitted itself to Bar.
Crowley, though... Crowley looks inscrutable for a moment, his gaze moving quickly between Aziraphael and the door and back, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
Aziraphael leans in, heart in his throat, and explains how much closer this is. He's near enough to Crowley that no one else can hear the tone of voice he uses or see his tongue slide out for an instant, fleetingly trace the shell of his ear.
Aziraphael's used to the transition being easier, smoothed out by kisses and touches and gentle teasing. Now there's only the seemingly endless damned stairs beneath his feet, and his unsteady breathing, and Crowley's hand tight around his wrist. It takes too long and they're there too soon, both at once, and he's fumbling the key into the door with hands that are suddenly unsteady.