If Marty had said that out loud, Jacob would have agreed with him. The vines, once severed, binding them together is probably a way to slow them down and thus capture them again. But bad luck for the plant, they're quicker on their feet.

He'd like to offer his arm, put it around the other's shoulders to give him some support, unfortunately, the binding means he can't at all, and so he just stays close, moving a little awkwardly once Marty sits down to kneel in front of him. Marty is just a touch shorter than he is, and while he was trussed up like a Christmas goose, Jacob hadn't got a good look at him. Now he can- and he appreciates that open, humour-filled face. Marty might not be cracking jokes this very second, but there's a light in his eyes that suggests he might. Hell, he doesn't even manage his own joke, despite how readily one should come to his lips.

Jacob forces his attention back to the man's calf, his fingers having nimbly rolled up some of the material, but that thorn is just too long to move the jeans past it without possibly snapping it and leaving some in there. That's the last thing Jacob wants to do.

"I've seen worse." He admits. Not giant thorns stuck into people, but knives, bits of splintered wood, glass, and bullets, some of which he's had to pull out of himself. This at least should come out cleanly, it doesn't seem barbed. But it hurts, and it's going to hurt a bit more before they're done, so the Victorian reaches into his coat, finds the hipflask tucked away, and passes it up.

"Take a swallow or two of that. Then we'll pull it out."