Habit and instinct can take a nerd only so far when what he's dealing with is tangled and organic and still moving, actually. He barely has time to feel foolish as his belly lurches weightless, the makeshift tether tearing free of a node that looked more stable than it clearly was.

And then, a wonder. Years later, and it's still miraculous to him—that one might simply fling a handful of magic at a friend, off the cuff. Contrivance transformed to instinct, as natural as the urge to shout. It's exquisite. He aches to count that reflex among his own.

And it makes a fine cushion, if rough, especially given the alternative. Ankles: intact. Tailbone: unfractured. Spine: smarting, now, its figurative goodwill running low despite certain enhancements. His bell charm's effects are limited, and the rest...
...is not an analgesic.
So he'll just sit here a moment, right where the cushion left him.

As to the question of his stick, which he would much rather look around for than discuss his own corporeal welfare, thank you for noticing,

"It's, eh..." A swivel here, a stiff attempt to twist there—nope, that's not happening— "I dropped it right, ehh... right over there... did the plant take it?"

The plant may, in fact, have taken it.