So yeah, maybe he's not the appropriate companion to the god of vinegar, limps, white hot iron nails and cuckolds, but hey, everybody needs somebody, don't they? He offers a careful wave, just a short lift of his hand, and then he drops it again. It's good not to be afraid, because ordinarily this would have him all kinds of freaked out with the newness of seeing a man limned with fire and smoke. Instead, he's content to drink it in and make a decision later about whether it was a good idea to make his presence known rather than attacking first or running out the other door of the smoking room.
Charming's survival is usually a major concern in his day to day existence, but with that out of his mind he feels contentment and warp-fast curiosity about literally everything. It all feels so new (should it? he doesn't know, but it isn't familiar) and he wants to turn all the lights on and off and light all the matches and smoke all the cigarettes. Cigarettes. He has a word for them.
He also has a word for the glasses on his face. They're taped together in the middle, dark framed and thick, and when he slides them down his nose he can barely see anything at all. There's just a muzzy dark blob where the not-terrifying god of the forge ought to be. He slides them back up and runs a hand through his hair to see how long it is, coming up short. Interesting.
He's not perfect. He's not a prince, after all, even if he is Charming as all get out. There are bandages over a few of his knuckles, and there's a bruise arcing sweetly over the low ridge of his left eye's orbit, but he feels fine. It's pretty cool, feeling fine and at home somewhere, not worrying or really hating anything at all, because there isn't a need.
He tries to decide whether Hephaestus would appreciate a handshake, or just burn off the skin on his hand if he tries.