Ariadne would be able to see very little aside from concern in his eyes. His muscles tensed when he saw the lines with the needles on the ends, because it only seemed to reveal greater and greater risk. He gave a single nod as she began feeding the needle into her own skin, then shifted his attention to Arthur again, waiting for his own turn with the measure of stress inside of him only growing.

Watching the other man fiddle with the machine and then insert his own needle, Costigan felt only vaguely reassured. At least it seemed less likely that they had any intention to kill him than he believed when first arriving, but it was hardly familiar territory.

After a beat, he looked back to Ariadne. The Bostonian slowly slid off his jacket, laying it on the arm of the couch where he intended to lay back, able to protect it from prying hands. Then he offered his arm out toward Ariadne, studying her expression and searching for the reassurance that she kept offering.