Looking back, Jarvis couldn’t actually identify when it had begun; the systematic stripping of the household staff seemed to abruptly happen one day, like lightning out of a clear blue sky. He supposed that made him unobservant. Or maybe it was just symptomatic of how he liked to keep his head down and avoid everyone where possible, until one day he looked up and realized that the servants and assistants and assorted help that had accompanied Master Stark to his… wherever he’d gone (Jarvis didn’t need to know so he didn’t ask and therefore it didn’t matter, which was absurdly reductionist thinking, but he lived to avoid the finer details that might bring him in contact with his owner) were gone now.
He was alone. It was a very unpleasant thing to realize. Fine, the apartment wasn’t that large, but someone was seriously underestimating how much work went into upkeep and maintenance, never mind everyday household tasks, and that was before you got to dealing with Master Stark’s actual daily needs- which were irregular and varied, because one morning he might be up to having an actual breakfast and other mornings it was only coffee, and then there were the bad mornings, and Jarvis liked to pretend he knew nothing of them so he wouldn’t have to be mixing cocktails before noon.
Assuming Master Stark was up before noon, anyway, as that seemed to be infrequently occurring but also dependent on a number of factors Jarvis was struggling to learn all at once. He should’ve been paying attention over the years, he supposed. That would teach him.
At least the lesson was less painful than some. Edwin (Jarvis, Jarvis, first names are for people) was still learning how to cope with the increase in workload, but the worst that had happened thus far was a little hiccup with the laundry. Celinda used to handle that and he’d never tried to learn. Jarvis was really more of a fetch-and-carry servant.
Also a breathing reminder, but. That was inherent and nothing he had to do, exactly. And in a way, he’d failed at that by staying away from Master Stark altogether.
Right up until he walked into the kitchen, brandishing a very naked lemon and accompanied by a cacophony of sound that Jarvis didn’t quite know how to process.
He blinked. Blinked again. Stared balefully at the lemon, life already given in service to something decidedly alcoholic (Jarvis could smell the fumes from where he stood). Shrugged and abandoned his efforts at mapping out some kind of routine or schedule that would keep him on top of the household needs and went in search of another piece of fruit to sacrifice to the greater good. It took only a moment to produce another lemon, which Jarvis proffered while looking somewhere about three inches to the left and slightly down from Master Stark’s shoulder.