Michael had never been very good at comforting people. His own discomfort had always gotten in the way. Not because he begrudged other people their emotions, but because they reminded him of his own, of the unresolved anger and pain he tried to keep tightly locked away in the corners of his mind. Compartmentalization wasn't just a coping mechanism: most days, it was the only way he could survive. So he'd sigh, roll his eyes, and offer his mother or Fiona or whoever a half-hearted pat on the back, because what was the alternative? If he allowed himself to feel his emotions, truly feel them instead of simply observing them from a safe distance, they would consume him.
But he was trying to get better at it. For Fi, and for his mom's memory, but most importantly for the nephew that was now effectively his son. He didn't want Charlie inheriting his shortcomings the way he'd been saddled with most of his father's. He wanted to be a good role model, a good person, which was in many ways the exact opposite of being a good spy.
"Any time," Michael answered, his tone of voice aiming for nurturing but landing somewhere in between compassion and stiffness. Then he took a moment to look Monty over before continuing. As soon as he'd dropped his arms away from the man he was bringing them in again, reaching for Monty's dominant hand to inspect the damage done. There was a reason Michael preferred to take advantage of hard surfaces in a fight. Satisfying as it might have been to punch someone in the face, those tiny bones in your hand would break just as easily as your opponent's nose.
His fingers grazing over Monty's knuckles, Michael began delicately peeling tape from bruised skin, relieved to have a task to focus on as he spoke again. "How long's it been for you? Since the war, I mean."