It was rare to see Tony so subdued, even for Jarvis. He'd seen the other man in a wide variety of states, from (artificially) cheerful inebriant to destructive and manic and all things between. Quiet was unusual and often heralded trouble in some form or fashion, and after all this time spent following around behind Tony, there was no help for the little shiver of misgiving Jarvis felt as the silence stretched on, unbroken only by the sound of careful sipping. He wasn't going to worry. It would spoil the moment, and he had so few moments like this one to celebrate.
The beer was a fairly unique experience as well, effervescent against the inside of his cheeks and roof of his mouth, and if he parted his lips slightly, there was something almost bitter about the taste. Or scent. Both, perhaps, and he let that absorb his attention rather than dwelling on why Tony was silent and seemingly contemplating his own lap.
Attention snapped back up at the familiar sound of the other man's voice, lifting both brows and the sharp jut of chin, and his initial response was a look of extreme distaste (all in the wrinkle of his nose) that bled to feigned offense. He was good at that one. It had a lot to do with the eyes, and the aborted flutter of a hand toward his chest and away again only for him to seize his keyboard. "I've named it after you," he assured, huffing out a short chuckle. "Maybe a sculpture. I'd rather something I had to dust than something I have to feed, garden, or otherwise keep alive."