Between his possessive nature and capacity for violence, he might have something in common with Jamie. Michael thinks only in shades of red and black when he's truly in a rage. Though under the same circumstances, a knife at his throat might've intrigued him more than frightened him. The differences between archangels and men, perhaps.

Michael shakes his head and then turns his back to her for a moment, opening the small container of black tea he'd pulled down earlier. Emotions are a tricky topic and romance only more so. He doesn't have any wisdom beyond what he's already offered.

"Only to say that if you find living with the memories unbearable, I can relieve you of them. Reflect on it. All you need do is ask."

Whether that's the memories of Jon, or of Jamie. It seems like needless suffering to him either way, living with the guilt of betraying a husband she still loves but cannot be with or carrying the burden of several hundred years loving someone who won't have her now. It'd be such an easy thing to do—a snap of his fingers, and she'd be free of it.

(But would she still be entirely Claire?)

He sets a mug of black tea with elderberries in front of her, as previously requested, and the traditional mug of hot water for himself. Michael takes a seat across from her. He never lets his face show too much, but threaded through his usual impassive facade is both fatigue and a muted melancholy.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything more positive to discuss. I've realized my family was worse off than I thought, and that the world I come from was not destroyed as I expected, yet there's still nothing for me to return to."

Maybe they can discuss the weather? At least that's been looking up since they got back.