Having lost his tongue before he'd had the opportunity to knock at the door of puberty, Jarvis had no particular conception of what his voice ought to sound like now. He could barely remember the sound of himself as a child, or even on that awkward cusp between youth and adolescence. It was lost to him, and indeed to anyone else given that he strongly doubted Tony could remember exchanging words with him once upon a time. He knew they'd spoken, at least long enough for introductions, but the details were gone now.
So much was gone, really. He'd accepted it if only because doing otherwise seemed useless. Nothing would return his tongue, his voice, his freedom or his parents, and Jarvis was well beyond crying about it now. He was gaining some ground in having someone willing to talk to him. It hadn't escaped his grasp that Tony put on such a good show for everyone else only to come home and flaunt one of those standing, understood rules about society in treating him the way he did. They both knew why Jarvis had been placed here years ago, and Tony didn't have to risk anything when they were both very well aware what was at stake.
Despite all of that, Tony had made him something. Not something: a voice. His voice. He'd put thought enough into it to consider accent and timbre, tone and modulation. Though Jarvis never really thought about how he'd sound, he would have to admit that Tony's selection seemed ideal.
He looked stunned, earlier wariness replaced by awe. "For me?" It took only a moment to type. Jarvis had always been quick, and he barely had to look between the tiny keyboard and Tony's face. "You made this for me." Like he couldn't quite get his head around it.