It is nothing short of a small blessing that Crowley is still able to communicate through written word. There had been a very real fear brewing within Aziraphale that Crowley might end up unable to communicate whatsoever, left drawing only unreadable symbols and cursed to being misunderstood.

He glances back down at the paper, now actually taking the time to read over Crowley's words in earnest. He wishes that he could answer him, but he hardly knew. It seemed to just happen so suddenly!

Although, more importantly—

"Let's not be crass," he remarks, taking the pen to cross out the word 'fuck' from the page. He doesn't want that in his notebook. He glances back up as soon as he's done, gaze flicking over Crowley as he gestures animatedly towards the drink.

"What-? The drink?"

Was that what he thought it was? Pulling it closer to himself, he leans forward to try to get a good whiff of the liquid. Nothing about it smells off. Actually, it smells exactly like he would expect it to. Was Crowley all that sure that it must be the drink? Thoughtlessly, he picks it up to take a sip from the glass.

"No, it seems alright to me."

It was a ludicrous idea from the start! Why would the bar poison any of their patrons?