What the piano had done to anyone, Jarvis couldn't say... though to be honest, he couldn't say much of anything at all, and thus had been the state of things for the last decade, give or take. It was fine. Or it wasn't, but no good would come of lamenting things done and gone and impossible to return. Better to worry about why the piano needed demolishing, and what poor piece of furniture might be on the list for inexplicable, violent death. There was a limit to how much time anyone could spend picking splinters out of the carpet before frustrations reached a tipping point, and Jarvis did still have feelings even if he wasn't able to express them very clearly.
Anyway, he had no help for wrangling things like cleanup anymore. There were no servants remaining but him, no one to share quick, commiserating looks... not that they looked at him before, but Jarvis liked to pretend he had allies where none existed. It was difficult, feeling isolated. Tony's chatter filled up the rooms, kept the worst of the silence and loneliness at bay, and maybe Jarvis couldn't respond in any meaningful fashion, but at least he could look and know someone was looking back.
Seeing him. Talking to him and not at him. If he ever looked at Jarvis and saw a burden, a stone hung around his neck like a breathing reminder of why it was smart to toe the line, it never showed. For that, Jarvis was grateful. He knew they were stuck with one another for every obvious, cruel reason (the ones no one dared admit or acknowledge, not even to themselves), but they were managing.
Mostly. The bar was set just above torturous death, so it wasn't impossible to stay above it.
Then again, if Jarvis found himself confronted with more wreckage, all bets were off. He eyed the summons, took a breath, and forged ahead only to pull up short at finding the other man's body looming out of a room as if he lacked the patience required to wait two more seconds for Jarvis to enter the workroom. Knowing Tony, he did. Brow furrowing, Jarvis shook his head.