At least by the time she begins, he is past tipsy and distinctly on the edge of drunk. It doesn't numb the pain that much, it's still a bright agony that flares into a new burst of pain with every jab of the needle through his skin, but it does make him able to tolerate it better.

The air is full of the scent of blood, cloying and comforting. Alastor's head is tipped forwards and his gaze is unfocused, vaguely watching her fingers deftly wrestle with slippery instruments and ragged skin.

"I shan't be offended if you take a taste."

Hm, that's perhaps a little personal, but it seems his ability to filter thoughts before they become words is starting to be impaired.