Jarvis rather fancied he might've been able to script the whole of the evening, from inauspicious arrival to stormy exit. There were aberrations, of course. One could never anticipate whether or not an individual might risk meeting his eyes for any length of time, much less speak to him as if he were deserving of acknowledgment. Gratitude was nothing Jarvis looked for. Spend a couple of decades being treated like scenery by the vast majority of the population and one stopped anticipating better.
Present company exempted, of course. But Tony had never been average, and he'd never been very good with the rules.
Sadly, he'd never been very good with manners, either. Manners. Empathy. Not poking at a problem until it erupted in his face, and somehow he inevitably seemed surprised when that sort of thing happened. Jarvis had given up trying to warn him on the front end, though he had risked trying to intervene in the middle, at least this time. Having Rogers meet his eyes, express thanks, it gave him enough impetus to at least attempt to salvage the situation.
As much as a pitcher of water and a meaningful look could hope to stop the runaway train that was one Tony Stark when he was barreling toward something inadvisably rude, anyway.
Now he was cleaning up the mess, which was precisely how he expected the evening to end. He was on his second trip back to collect dishes when the master of the house swept back through, apparently intent on disordering the bar. Again. Snorting softly, Jarvis shook his head and shot Tony a look that read you have to ask?
It was all in the eyebrows and the tilt of his head, and possibly the way he rolled his eyes because, really, the problem was perfectly obvious.