Agreeing with Tony was something of a full time job. As was minding Tony's diet (abysmal), worrying about his liver (likely to fail), disapproving of his sleeping habits (poor at best), and hoping he would stop antagonizing the world at large sometime soon (pipe dream). Jarvis did his utmost, which was likely why he'd lasted as far as he had, the final remaining servant in the household.
It didn't hurt, he imagined, that he did try to mind Tony in the least conventional of ways; mostly involving copious dry wit and a blatant disregard for protocol whenever it was only the two of them alone. They'd taken years to reach this point, where Jarvis felt he could roll his eyes without risk of having them plucked right out of his head, but the arrangement worked well for the both of them. Or. It worked as well as one might expect given the horrific power imbalance and constant threat of discovery and punishment, anyway.
Nothing was perfect.
"Mm." It was one of the few sounds he could make without the synthesizer, and one of the first he'd dared, ages ago. A noncommittal hum, something still hinting around disapproval in the press of his lips. Though that could be worry for the carpet, given it was all the same to Jarvis some days. "You care. You care or you wouldn't bother." Dragging new projects home just to poke at them wasn't always Tony's purview. That he'd bothered asking Rogers to the house meant something. Jarvis couldn't pin it down yet, but he was working on it. His eyes were narrowed, focused on Tony's face and the minute tics around his eyes that spoke of more than casual dismissal.