Still talking to him. To him, not at him, and that was both distinctly foreign and a little worrisome. Jarvis didn’t know how to process it, not really. This was the most Master Stark had ever spoken to him ever, and that included their very, very brief acquaintance years ago- when they’d both been children, before the Games, before they’d both unexpectedly become orphans. Before. It was a good a marker as any, and Jarvis still tended to separate time that way. Not that he had so much of it under his belt, but some things made you feel old. Service was one of them. Duty had a weight to it, made worse when it was enforced obligation, order and rules that had been drilled into his skull by harsh repetition.
Jarvis didn’t make a noise. There were few available to him and he hadn’t dared in years, but he did huff a short breath through his nose- not quite a laugh, not even a snort. Just a breath, loud as a thunderclap in his ears because no. Not done. Blanching, he whisked the glass away to the sink to carefully rinse it, thin hands deft on the curve of the tumbler and the lingering fingerprint smudges that spoke of someone rolling it around in their grasp rather than just gripping and drinking.
Maybe he wasn’t the only one nervous, then. It seemed presumptuous to think so, but Jarvis still risked a quick peek from the corner of an eye, encouraged by the way Master Stark kept banging on about drinks that were supposedly manly or more apropos for an older audience or… whatever. Jarvis didn’t drink. He’d never tried. Frankly, the way some things tasted remained only a memory to him now, because nothing put a damper on eating and enjoying one’s meal quite like losing a tongue. Everything tasted funny and the whole business got messy. Jarvis only ate in private if he could help it, though that had gotten easier with the lack of everyone else in the house.
When the glass was clean and dry, he hesitated before refilling it with ice (there had been ice, hadn’t there? Something that crunched, anyway, and who didn’t want ice in a drink?) and bringing it back to the counter. Without direct order on the matter of how much drink, or even if he ought to be refilling it instead of allowing the other to do it himself, Jarvis was left to make his own decision. Strange, but not as fraught as it could be. What was the worst that could happen? So mentally he shrugged before carefully pouring a very healthy measure of drink- four fingers at least, almost the whole glass. Back toward Master Stark it went with a nudge, and his eyes cut to the peel and away again with a little twitch of brows. It wasn’t quite asking a question, but it was more than merely standing and waiting for the next command.