Macmillan's knee making contact with his crotch had sent Ben to the ground, and had finally gotten him to let go of the other man's neck, though not before he had pulled him about eighty percent of the way down as well. He hit the cobblestones and felt his breath knocked out of him, and it took a minute to reorient himself. Macmillan was saying something stupid — obviously he wasn't Greengrass, and Ben knew that, but it didn't mean he had any less of a desire to just fucking murder him in the street at the moment. But other people were here now, so he probably shouldn't. Someone was calling out to Macmillan (someone who apparently recognized both of them), a woman was calling out to them generally, and —

Ben pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to find the source of that other voice. His eyes settled on an unfamiliar young man — young being the operative word, because really in any other circumstance Ben might have thought he was just a kid. At the moment, though, it didn't matter.

"Noble Greengrass?" he asked, voice wavering with tension. His body was tense, too, ready to pounce on this kid once he got the confirmation he was looking for, spectators and women (was that Angie fucking Swan?) and consequences aside.