It wasn't at all like one of the others being in the kitchen with him, as focused on their own tasks as Jarvis might be. There was a comfortable silence then, the knowledge that they were all in the same boat after a fashion; fine, Jarvis was a little lower in the water, but they were all prey to the same whirlpool (this one named Tony Stark, source of every current that might drag them under or wave that might swamp the unwary). Now it was only Jarvis trying to stay afloat, and he was far, far too close to the object of his discomfort to be able to work with any degree of ease.
At least he didn't manage to stab himself while cutting anything. That would've been the height of shame: a servant incapable of serving. Master Stark would have every reason to inflict punishment then. It would've been earned.
But there was no commentary, no impatience. Only the weight of knowing Master Stark was present, and somehow Jarvis produced a plate that was warm and edible and enough to garner thanks of all things. He couldn't quite help but stare, eyes snapping up to meet darker counterparts and holding there long enough to convey surprise that masked only the tiniest hint of suspicion.
Was this a test?
Swallowing, measuring the unexpected gratitude against the equally incongruous invitation, Jarvis reached out and deliberately rapped his knuckles on the countertop to draw attention back his direction. It was a risk. He wasn't meant to draw the eye or interact, but Master Stark opened that door. Jarvis was merely walking through it.
Also he was holding a napkin with a look that warned someone ought to take it, especially if he was going to be eating with his fingers on furniture Jarvis might have to spot clean later.