The glare was easy to ignore. That flicker of something wounded, though, it dug underneath vulnerable places, a splinter wiggling home to join all the thorny brethren that lived under Jarvis' skin. Tony was family, at least in some twisted sense of the word. He was all Jarvis had, what he knew, and he didn't casually go around jabbing at the other man just to watch him twitch and recoil. There was enough of that, really, and piling on wasn't necessary.
Jarvis reminded himself that it wasn't the goal, piling on. He was being honest because here, between them, that was his job. Tony had a remarkable capacity for self-delusion. Jarvis had no such luxury. Frankly, someone needed to hold up the mirror from time to time, and he'd rather it come from him than someone who would follow up, seize on that flash of weakness, and do something awful with it.
Then he'd just be cleaning up messes for days. Drinks and shattered glass, demolished furniture and a bevy of parties that weren't worth attending. Aftermath took all manner of form. Jarvis saw a very specific type, and he hoped to hell that Clint was actually going to listen to him and avoid dragging Tony right out into the thick of the most obvious choices for quick forgetfulness.
The creases at the corners of his mouth tightened. Deepened. "I know you better than that. No one else does. Barton, maybe, but that's two people in the world that know you don't design weapons just to watch them make anyone bleed. Why should he think different? Why should anyone?" A hand flapped, the gesture far less contained than Jarvis' usual spare movements. His eyes narrowed abruptly, sharp and measuring. "You should talk to him again. Check on him. Try to revise whatever opinion he has that says you should've been ecstatic to see that weapon in use."
This time, Jarvis would stay closer to hand. He'd made himself scarce before, but that had proven a poor decision. Not as poor as some, but there was always room for improvement.