It wasn't accidental timing which saw the smith approach Thetis as Achilles departed. Hephaestus had pressed a warm hand to hers, squeezed tight with affection, then shuffled outside for air. An artist of some notoriety was one thing, but he was known to be a reclusive artist for a reason; the crush of so many people, so many lights, so many Greeks when he'd spent all these years avoiding them... A little time, then, an attempt at privacy to compose himself.
When he returned to his foster mother's side, it was with cane in hand and more quiet stealth than any cripple had right to. Hephaestus stood tall but tired; he was still processing what they'd seen on screen. He smiled at Thetis despite that, an open, unexpectedly boyish smile which perhaps showed more fondness than was intended. There was no hint that the smith had hung back so mother and son could speak, but then, there didn't much need to be.