Re: [quicklog: micah c, neil d, cris m, louis d]
[No one was arresting Neil. No one was technically arresting anyone. Cris planned on cuffing Micah only to incapacitate him and keep him from making the mistake of firing his gun another time, not to bring him in to any precinct anywhere. They were in a world, roiling fairground dusts and rusting poles buried deep, fanning out in acres of faded, painted canvas—a world where none of them existed, except maybe Micah, and even that was questionable, given he'd placed himself in the Great Gatsby door. What were they going to do? Drag him down some place and Cris would bowl into the bullpen, he'd flash his NYPD badge, let 'em know he was from 2015 and explain the situation, from Sam to how the girl he had in cuffs was actually a man named Micah? No. Today wasn't a day for that. It wasn't a day for dragging the Irishman back to Marvel or anywhere else for that matter. Even Cris knew that.
He didn't want what he thought was going to happen to happen, but he knew it wasn't an "on-the books" kinda day, whatever else it was.—But unlike Neil, he did care. He was tired too, but he still cared. There was no way for him not to. In fact, the only thing in his life he'd ever worn out on was Elena, as far as he could remember, and even that was a new thing. No. Cris cared, almost too much.
He struggled in the gasping dirt, elbow to would-be Sam's spine, only stopping at the close pressure of heat, like a coil searing the back of his neck. He twisted, knees on the ground, to look at Louis, at his partner-turned-Biblical reckoning, nothing behind those blue eyes—not exhaustion, not anger, nothing. Cris frowned, Micah's white wrists crossed by the weight of his palms beneath him. He slapped down the silver of cuffs and tightened them a touch too much. He glared at Sam's brother as he tried to haul Micah to his feet, kicking away the dropped firearm. It disappeared into the brown-green reeds that sprouted in dryness beneath the trailer.] Step back, Louis. Now.