The ways in which this meeting could’ve gotten off track were numerous, and Jarvis had considered more than a few in anticipation of how best to head them off. There was no script, per se. He and Tony hadn’t sat down with one another to agree on a series of talking points, including when and if Jarvis ought to interject. To a certain degree, his presence and level of interaction was entirely a matter of whim rather than careful planning, which was almost funny when he considered how much of a risk it was to open his mouth at all. The number of people who were aware of his ability to speak were very, very limited, and with good reason. Exposing that secret to one more- a man with whom Tony did not have the most cordial of relationships (to say the least), who seemed to have a worrying inability to conceal emotion or curb impulse- was terrifying on so many levels that Jarvis could hardly contain the racing of his own heart.
Exposing his voice meant opening Tony up to more scrutiny. Then again, so did encouraging Tony to have this meeting at all, and that meant Jarvis had to pick a spot to draw the line at which he would stop overthinking and constantly analyzing every possible way things might go wrong, and instead focus on how best to make them go right.
At the moment, that meant intervening before sharp tones and brittle words became aggression… or a dramatic exit, take two. If their guest left again, he wouldn’t return.
He’d been in the kitchen, listening intently to the exchange occurring in the other room while also contemplating dinner plans. If their guest remained, food was the ideal way to cement an evening gone well, wasn’t it? Breaking bread was a tradition for a reason… and Jarvis did like traditions, to an extent. They were comforting. Something simple and hearty, maybe, and Tony did have a fondness for a pastry-wrapped beef that wasn’t too difficult to prepare (after years of practice, anyway).
All of that had to be put on hold when he caught the sound of raised voices, and then the distinctly familiar clink of glasses at the bar. Wincing, Jarvis slipped out of the kitchen and hesitated before very deliberately clearing his throat. It sounded like a gunshot to him; too loud, too unexpected, but too late to take back now. “Your suggestion,” he corrected, as tart as his synthesized voice would allow for, “Would be to stop all of this and spend the next few years re-thinking, which is really your way of stalling.” He arched a brow in pointed warning and maybe a hint of reproach, and then turned attention to their guest with a milder, “I apologize for the interruption.” He didn’t, really. It was necessary. Left alone, these two were going to devolve into a petty squabble any moment for sheer lack of ability to speak the same language.