Jason has no idea what the thing in the nearest translucent tank is. He is still staring at it when Anakin breezes in, contemplating-- vertebrae? cartilage? too many limbs-- with a sort of disjointed curiosity, but he quickly turns to the task at hand.

It had occurred to him, while Anakin was hunting supplies, that in some ways it might be safer for he himself to 'go under the knife.' Ultimately brain injury isn't precisely permanent for him, after all. Then he'd reminded himself that Anakin Skywalker would be the presumed operating surgeon in this scenario, and decided that no, he was not going to volunteer himself as patient.

So he only nods, slowly, at Anakin's off-hand suggestion, taking the knife and the alcohol for some quick-and-dirty field cleaning, as it were. He gazes sidelong at Skywalker as he wipes the blade, with a critically assessing look.

"You should lie down; your head would be steadier that way." Pause. "We do have a pillow."

"No," says Harry from where Jason has propped him. "I don't wanna be bled on. You don't think I got one of these things in me, do you?"

"I checked, Harry," Jason says patiently. "You're fine. Presumably it wouldn't work on you-- whatever 'it' does-- since you do not have a brain."

"Oh, thanks."

"Well, you don't," Jason says with equanimity. "I am ready when you are, Mr. Skywalker."