Princess
"Varric," Hawke started idly, pausing at a merchant's stall and squinting one eye to observe the curvature of a blade. "I can't help but notice you've given everyone a nickname."
"I'm a storyteller, Hawke." He reclined against the stall, taking care to avoid eye contact with the dwarf behind the wares. "Everyone gets a petname. Makes it easier to take notes and pass dirty messages without getting caught."
She set the blade down and peered at him, hands on her hips. "What's mine?"
A coy smirk crept across his broad face. "I'll let you know when it hits me, Princess."
...
Freckles
Hawke's eyes opened reluctantly, greeted by unfamiliar walls and red sheets. Forcing herself vertical, she frantically searched for clues as to where the evening had led her.
"Morning, Freckles." Varric purred; tone curiously accustomed to hung-over conversation. He poured a second mug of ale for her, then gestured toward a steaming platter of breads. "Fish biscuit?"
Hawke grasped her tunic shut hastily. "Varric, did we...?"
"Madam, I'm wounded." He sighed, exaggerating hurt. "Next time you decide to drink Isabela under the table, I'm leaving you there."
She blushed, completely admonished, then frowned. "Freckles?"
"I counted them." He grinned. "You insisted."
...
Shanks
"Varric. Something's coming." Hawke stood awkwardly still, one foot raised for balance, the other firmly planted on a pressure plate. Varric worked deftly to disable the trap.
He furrowed his brow in concentration. One slip would launch limbs everywhere. He was partial to his arms and, absently looking up, those amazing stems. "Not really the time, Shanks."
Panic cracked her voice. "Those are dragons, Varric."
The ground rumbled beneath them, making the job difficult. The last piece clicked and Hawke sprang, a whirling dervish of claws and blood, Aveline and Merrill close behind.
Relieved, he patted Bianca. "That was close."