Tony turned, all too eager and too ready to be brought back by the sound of that knocking. His decisions to pull his nose out of things that didn't concern him, out from under rocks he should never have upturned, were always reversible - temptation wasn't a word in his vocabulary, because that would have required knowing something about restraint. Give him a whiff of what he wanted, the barest reason to cast off his pretense at taking the high road, and there he was. The look on his face was openly relieved, all expectation and a not-so-casual desire to smooth things over.
And his smile cracked open at the napkin. "Thanks, mom," he said, dry, setting his glass down to snag it from him - and to hang it over his forearm like some stuffy waiter. He gave him a wink (because when Tony crossed a line, he didn't do it on tiptoe) and grabbed his glass again. "I'll be good." That would have sounded implausible even if he hadn't been holding a full glass of whiskey and setting off to go eat on the sofa, but the thought, hopefully, counted for at least a little.
If it didn't, Jarvis was unlikely to find himself repaid in any way for the foreseeable future.
"And if you don't want to come watch a fifty-year history of people dressing up like farmers," he added, pausing in the doorway to shift his plate in his hand, "the games begin ten o'clock sharp the day after tomorrow." He paused a beat. "I'm definitely going to need a wake-up call."