Idle talk was a luxury, when one didn't have the natural means to speak at all anymore. Jarvis had been without a tongue for most of his life, and without a voice until Tony had taken the audacious leap into help that was so very tangible that it couldn't be denied as anything but a gesture of affection. Sometimes the voice changed, tweaked and altered and made better (or different, simply dependent on whim and humour in any given moment), but it was more than he'd expected to have back. He should've hated Tony, and Tony should've ignored him as something of a visible and constant reminder of things better left in the past. But they were here together anyway, and Jarvis wouldn't take his words back.
He hummed, leaned slightly over the work of polishing the other side of the table to a high, glossy shine. It wasn't something he needed to do, but it kept his hands busy and meant he didn't have to look at Tony as he spoke. Sometimes it was easier that way, with eye-contact still a thing that felt strange and uneasy even if it was only Tony looking back at him.
Especially because he wasn't sure which Tony he might get at any given moment.
This one, for example, was flustered and it showed. The solemn topic alone was aberrant, making Jarvis consider his thoughts carefully before speaking up again. "Maybe," he ventured, deliberate in a way that held weight, "He's not worried about himself, or anyone else in particular. Maybe he's looking to make a bigger statement." A brow arched, blue eyes flickering up and then down again with a shift of expression that was difficult to read. "He's got your attention. You won't be the only one."
The status quo was easy when no one questioned it, and no one tried to do anything differently. Take enough men like Rogers, all digging in their heels, and something had to give. Already there were questions about the last Games, and Rogers had the potential to stir the pot just that little extra.
Though Tony wasn't wrong. It would get him killed if he wasn't careful.