[Costigan had passed out for about a half hour before waking up uncomfortable, feeling ill. That had transitioned into profuse sweating and the inmate curled in a ball with sharp pains in his stomach and abdomen in general. To just say he hated this would be a gross understatement. If he was already feeling this shit, he doubted his ability to succeed again unless Paddy and Dick both held firm on what they had promised in so many words.]

"I'm not hungry." [He muttered, closing his eyes for a second and then snapping them open. The nausea was beginning to intensify and the former undercover had no interest in provoking it, even if he knew his warden was right.]

Still entirely unable to sleep, Costigan had just been stewing in his own misery. He never felt when his mood had changed, but it was definitely different now. When Dick had fallen asleep, the former undercover had managed to get himself another blanket from the closet, though it was discarded on the floor at the moment, and had actually finished the bottle of water. He was irrationally hungry and still nauseous and close to vomiting again.

"Fahk you," the inmate replied without missing a beat. Costigan was on his communicator, trying to figure out which of his friends he could trust to bring him food and which of them had begun to turn against him or which had been against him from the beginning. He began to type a reply in to someone, laying on his side facing away from Dick, screen illuminating his face.

Costigan had seemed fairly out of it for awhile. Even in the incident with Bourne, he had been almost entirely detached from the real world and now was not much better. Time continued to pass and to fade away without any rhyme or reason in the inmate's mind. Truly, he had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, why he felt the way he did, or even much of how he got to this place. His entire mind was noticeably absent given his current state, but the inmate seemed content laying there in an almost catatonic state for the last couple hours. His occasional shifts, mutterings, and looks proved that he wasn't actually in a place to be too concerned about, but he certainly needed to be watched.

Seemingly without provocation, the inmate suddenly began to run his hand down his chest. Then the other. He repeated this gesture, hands shifting in angle and direction as he tried to wipe what seemed to be nothing from his skin. The inmate began to yell with no discernible words outside of the occasional profanity as his legs scrambled to try to help him sit up. Instead, he fell off the couch, still running his hands over his torso and then shifting to work on his arms as well.

Costigan awoke slowly. He was aware of light before he could actually focus and see, aware of the quiet before he actually realized how few sounds there were. The whole ordeal might have been a dream in his mind until he shifted onto his right arm and flinched back into the position he was in a moment before, laying flat on his back. The undercover paused a beat before planting his hands at his sides and pushing himself up, leaning back on his pillow and the arm of the couch in order to be partially sitting.

It took him another minute for his mind to catch up with his body. He was lightheaded, still hungry, still cold while sweating, and still nauseous. Part of him wondered if those symptoms would ever go away, minus the lightheadedness, which was new. He reasoned that it was probably a result of dehydration and blood loss, which made sense, and he reached out to grab the half-full bottle of water on the table beside him.

Pausing as he realized Dick was in the chair, he continued quietly when his mind processed that his warden was asleep. His stomach growled as if to remind him how hungry he was, the same hunger it had felt for days on end. Perhaps it was justified now, given how little he had eaten in the two days prior and how little he had kept down in the days before that, but he hated it none the less.

Costigan didn't want to wake Dick for it, however, so after slowly finishing the bottle of water, he pushed back the blanket and sat up. After another beat, he slowly stood and began to quietly stumble his way toward the kitchen, leaning on various items as he went. That is, until he hit the center of the room where there was nothing to lean on and stumbled forward in order to prevent falling. Instead, he slammed into the counter of the kitchen when he arrived there, straight into one of his wounds, and let out a yell of pain before he could think to stop himself. The undercover pulled himself up to lean heavily on the counter, breathing heavy as he tried not to make any more noise.