Jarvis straightened when Tony moved, sitting back instead of slouching forward over his knees, eyes following the other man out of a combination of habit and concern. It surprised him vaguely that the immediate move wasn't to top off that glass, but he wouldn't remark on it. Better Tony remained sober long enough to really think about this. Even if he didn't verbally acknowledge it, even if he argued and shut Jarvis down before he could even begin to articulate his thoughts, he was thinking. That was a start, but it wasn't enough to satisfy the unease curling sickly in Jarvis' stomach, a remembered panic and grief echoing there, no way to shut it down but to keep trying.
There was a card left to him, though he didn't necessarily like to play it. In part, his reticence was that it might sound like a threat, and there was no part of Jarvis capable of threatening Tony. He was not an aggressive man, never had been, and trying to overcome very well-taught lessons about submission and backing down took a surprising amount of effort; enough that he fidgeted again, fingers drifting toward his mouth and away again in a very old and stupidly transparent habit that spoke to nerves and fear in equal measure.
"Then maybe I should talk to him." Suggesting Barton was easier, certainly, but Jarvis didn't see a point in having another go-between when he was perfectly capable. He was a breathing illustration of how there was more to Tony than the image, than whatever bias Rogers couldn't seem to shake. "If you think he'll misunderstand you, and you want the distance..." Jarvis wouldn't argue that the visible space wasn't smart. It was. Things were too much right now, and running right back toward what amounted to a bomb site was foolish and risky.
Still, no one paid attention to what an avox did. Jarvis was furniture. Scenery. He could carry a message, if there was communication to be done. Provided Tony was even willing to entertain the notion, anyway.