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The first time Hawke touched Varric, he’d cursed.
It had been mere days since their encounter in the Merchant’s Quarter, and he was already wondering if perhaps - Maker save them all - his brother might have been right. Hawke’s reputation had quickly proven to be… incomplete. Missing the nuances of her particular talents. Oh, she could drive a blade expertly between a man’s ribs or set a poor bastard on fire for not getting her joke - after trying to kill her, granted, but he really got the sense that the joke had been the final straw. But it was exactly that element of unpredictable mischief that made him wonder if perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew, hitching his wagon to the promising young upstart taking the undercity by storm.
Good thing for his pride that he loved a challenge. And anyone with a mouth that smart and a penchant that strong for finding trouble and surviving anyway had to at least be as interesting as assured. They needed that kind of energy for the expedition - in part, because he was banking on Hawke keeping them alive. But also because the deep roads - with their dank, dark tunnels, and darkspawn, and Bartrand - would be short on fresh air, and Hawke promised to be a breath of it.
So when there was a sudden tug at the tuft of hair he liked to keep tied out of his eyes, it had taken him only a moment to decide that while Hawke might turn out to be a pain in his ass, he was hard-pressed to care. And when she’d looked back over her shoulder from halfway across the tavern - having not even acknowledged him during her little drive-by attack - and tossed him a look that seemed to say ‘You coming?’ Varric had had to sigh to hide his smile as he hauled himself up and followed her out into the city.
***
The first time Hawke had touched him had barely deserved the distinction. A quick tug, there and gone, without so much as brushing his skin.
The second time counted even less, in his humble opinion, as there was not only a layer of clothing between them, but also a pair of her thick, fraying boots that looked like the soles might peel away if she stepped in a particularly hearty puddle. Dirt and Maker-knew-what else had smeared across the front of his best breeches as she’d swung her feet into his lap, with all the easy entitlement of a cat taking its rightful place directly in the center of everyone’s way. He’d moved to shove them back to the grimy floor under the table, but… Truth be told, it was difficult not to admire her boldness. She hadn’t even looked up, had only stared pensively at her hand of cards and taken a sip of her ale.
Wicked grace had seemed like a good excuse to bring the group together as a team. They would need to work together as a cohesive unit down in the depths of the earth, and cards seemed like an excellent way to engender affection and air out any tensions. So far, though, it had resulted in no less than three impassioned speeches on mages’ rights - for and against; a lengthy debate over the intricacies of the law and when it should apply - according to the soon-to-be guard captain, always, and according to the former pirate captain, never; and a contest of who could use the word seamen the most times in a sentence sensically.
All in all, Varric had spent worse evenings doing much worse things.
Hawke, though… Hawke had a knack for navigating the growing group’s powder-keg antics, maneuvering between subtle diffusion and firm reprimand as deftly as he’d ever picked a lock. He was no stranger to playing the instrument that was finnicky, fussy people like a master musician. But Marian Hawke was quickly and decidedly putting him to shame with the sheer breadth of her range and talent. Miraculously, and in large part because of her specifically, they survived the night without a single blackened eye or plucked feather.
They tested their luck the following week, and again the next.
Soon, the game became a common occurrence.
So did Hawke’s feet in Varric’s open, unguarded lap.
***
The third time Hawke touched Varric, it was an insistent, desperate sort of touch that left him tingling all over his body.
Damned dragon.
One minute, he’d been ducking behind a rock to avoid a blast of searing breath, preparing to pop up the second it passed to fire another bolt at its leathery hide, and the next he’d been on his back with an explosive pain ripping into his side.
For a moment, all he’d seen was blue. Blue sky, blue magic, blue eyes… Eyes that burned like raw lyrium as they stared down at him, hard and unyielding while she cast her pretty, very soothing spells. He might’ve been more worried about the quickly dulling ache in his side were it not for the stony determination in those eyes.
Maker’s balls, how close had he come to death? They’d fought a dragon - oh, that was so going in a book - and walked away because of those fantastic little fingers.
As far as Varric was concerned, Hawke could touch him any damned time she pleased.
***
It became a regular thing, not that he minded. A flick of the nose here, a tug of an earlobe there. He smiled now every time she threw one of those long arms around his wide shoulders. Chuckled each time she pinched his side, though he tried not to let her see. It was hardly any fun if he encouraged her.
Not that it would have stopped her. The mage was hell-bent on being affectionate. With everyone. No one’s lap was safe from her plump, entitled ass. Nary a strand of hair went untoyed with, nor brow went unkissed when she was around.
Varric just counted himself lucky to have made the cut.