"I kno-ow," he insists in a sing-song voice like a petulant child. Because he is one. "And you don't hafta stand there, either, I'll be fine."

Grumble grumble.

But getting his numbed lower half to do what he wants is proving to be more difficult than he expects. He grits his teeth and puts his weight on his right leg, before forcing his left leg up and juuuust about swings it over the saddle. Still holding onto the saddle horn, his left foot finds purchase on the ground, but his right foot's caught in the stirrup and he's left hopping and muttering, "Shit, shit, shit--goddammit--"