He grins at the rebuke, broad and ragged and fond.

Oh, but he'd hate it so much.

It's argument and acquiescence at once, because with the gentle warmth comes something searing and spiteful too. He'd worry about scorching the crows' talons with his skin, if they were real; instead he can just enjoy the strange shifting weight, and the knowledge that this god hasn't shackled himself into stagnance.