If Fenrir had been a wolf, he probably would have smelled Tyr first, the god's unique scent impossible for Fenrir to forget, even after thousands of years. But the limitations of a human-shaped nose meant Fenrir sensed him first, the hair-on-end sensation that told him a god-thing was near. He turned his head, looking, and...there.
Tyr. Fenrir felt an immediate rush of conflicting instincts. He wanted to run over to Tyr, tail wagging and tongue lolling out happily, wrestle with him and roll in the grass, bark and howl and nose him so that Tyr would know how happy Fenrir was to see him. He wanted to snarl and froth, to stalk over to Tyr teeth snapping and claws out, so that Tyr would know that Fenrir didn't forgive him, couldn't forgive him.
It made his head hurt. Fenrir settled for walking towards the other god, calling out, "Tyr," when he was close enough.
Fenrir wondered what Tyr would see when he looked at him. Besides, a somewhat feral-looking man with shaggy hair and a dirty overcoat where a wolf should have been standing. It was the first time Fenrir had ever given any real thought to how his human form looked to the rest of the Norse.