Anakin would have laughed at a joke framed like that, first hand, second hand, metal hand. He liked puns, especially the kind that made certain people uncomfortable. Like when he joked about his lost hand or being in rehab because of it.
It did feel weird, all those pieces of glass coming out all at once. But he didn't flinch. When you existed with a regular companion of pain, like phantom limb pain, your tolerance readjusted along with it.
He shifted to change feet, propping his now glass-free foot on the bar crossing the legs of the chair. And when that foot was done he stayed seated.
"Thanks," he said, and he did sound grateful. But he still needed help. He aimed the flashlight at one of the doors in his apartment. "That one's the bathroom, the cabinet in there is self explanatory." His words didn't have any bite to them. He wasn't upset that he'd needed to ask for help. Tonight was just more evidence of his slow march towards the inevitable.
"I just need the rubbing alcohol and bandages. I know how to put them on."