This was inspired by an interview with David Gaider (and I can't remember where I saw it anymore, but if you want to find it I'd try Varric's DA Wiki page), who mentioned that they almost slipped in something like this for the ending of DA2. So the last three lines of dialogue, as well as the characters, belong to Bioware.
Hawke paces the room in a fury. She is anger and pain and indignation, restlessness and anxiety, hovering on the edge of panic.
Varric deliberately gives off casual indifference. He sits on the outskirts of the maelstrom that is Hawke, in a chair behind a paper-covered desk. The room is dim and, most importantly, cramped – there is only a small amount of floor space, from the fireplace by the door to the tattered lounge that sits snugly against the desk, which is barely a foot away from the bed. There isn't a window, and that's for the better, considering their situation. It's winter, anyhow, and the fire burns placidly as it does well past usual waking hours. The tavern below is the only bar in a drowsy village, crowded enough to hide them from curious onlookers and small enough to hide them from pursuers – whoever they might be.
Hawke is pacing between the couch and the fireplace, her attention so firmly fixed on her words and the situation that she is nearly oblivious to the dwarf shuffling papers at the desk, rubbing his temple as if their contents frustrate him – it's really her pacing that's frustrating him. She is frustrated that he is sitting there at all, pretending like he's returned from a visit to his grandmother's and everything's all right.
Even dressed in an inconspicuous tunic and leggings, she is still the picture of a scrapper, bare arms solid muscle, tall legs propelling her across the room…. he can see the tension in her shoulders. "Have patience, Hawke – it is a virtue."
"Well, it's a damn difficult one!" There's no talking her down when she's like this – she's too worried about her fate, too worried about him and Anders and her lost friends, living who-knows-where because she made a choice, and even though she knows it was the right one, she can't stop the guilt that's burned a hole through her in the time since.
And so Varric sits at the desk, puts on his reading glasses (he isn't all that young, really) and picks up the papers. They are a mixture of things: stolen news, clandestine correspondences…he's had his ear to the ground, and he isn't going to stop now. Hawke and the others need his protection. It's been eleven years since he met Hawke and three since they left Kirkwall, and he's still doing the same old thing, in a dim room above a lousy bar. But Hawke won't come striding in, clad in her leathers and a smirk on her lips, asking if he's ready for a little exercise.
No, Hawke is always there, now. He hates keeping her cooped up like this – the mabari is handling the seclusion better than his mistress – but he's done all he can. Hawke is trapped. So she worries.
"What if they had caught Anders, and not you?" She's started up again. He reaches back and pulls the tie out of his hair, running his fingers through it and staring determinedly at the papers. Don't react…
"They would have killed him!" She comes to an abrupt halt in her pacing and stares at him, as if expecting an answer to some question that he should have known she was asking, even though she hadn't asked it. "We have to do something, Varric. Now."
He takes a breath. "Patience, Marian. There's a right time for everything."
She crosses her arms. She looks cold. The fireplace crackles. She is winding down. "I'm not patient, Varric." She falls gracelessly to the couch, curling her legs beneath her and crossing her arms across the back, her elbows overlapping onto the desk. The desk is long, stretching the whole length of the couch and a little farther, but it isn't very deep: Hawke is close enough to kiss.
She looks despondent. She hangs her head, black hair falling over her eyes, and speaks as timidly as a child telling a horrible secret. "I can't sit still for this long. Not when I can help. It's me they want, anyway."
She turns to the side, looking toward the fireplace. He leans forward and chuckles quietly, and she stiffens immediately. His breath is warm and smells faintly of whiskey. "Just have patience, beautiful." He lingers for a moment. She wishes he'd just do something instead of hovering on the outskirts.
But she doesn't squirm, doesn't scowl, doesn't speak – she will be the paragon of patience.
He knows how she thinks – always has. He leans back, smiling, arms wide. "I can do this for a long time, Hawke. I stood on the sidelines for a decade while you had your…dalliances." He takes a languid sip of whiskey. "I'm the Paragon of Patience."
She lets the silence hang long enough for his words to fade, then turns around, putting her arms back on the desk. "What did you tell her?" She speaks with mild curiosity, and still with some timidity. But it, too, is fading – she is returning slowly to herself, to a time when they would sit like this, and instead of pacing she would be drinking a glass of wine, swirling it absently as she laughed.
He's tried to get her to laugh, all this time – but he's nearly given up. She is too preoccupied. Her elbows rest on either side of the paper he's currently attempting to focus on. He arches his eyebrow, smacking his lips at the taste of cheap whiskey, and doesn't look up at her sad face. "About what?"
He can hear her shifting, the uncomfortable edge in her answer. "My….dalliances."
"The truth." He shrugs. "Chantry boy wouldn't put out, Blondie was crazy for you, and…well, crazy. You had a fling with Rivaini….and then there was the Elf, but you were a secret mage, so he started screwing Rivaini." He pauses, as if going through it in his mind to make sure he's covered everything, and then shrugs again, shooting her a brief glance. She is pensive.
After a brief moment she asks, "And where did they all go?"
He slows down in his writing, but he is no longer really paying attention. He is pretending for her sake – he keeps up this indifference because he is the strong one, now, and Hawke is depending on him to stay together when she crumbles. "Fenris managed to make a somewhat-honest woman of the pirate queen, and they went sailing off together. Aveline and Donnic started a new life somewhere. Carver's in the Wardens. Sebastian called you a traitor when you spared Anders, who went into hiding," Her head shoots up. He switches his storytelling tone for one of placation, "It's all right, Hawke, I didn't mention he was with you. Or, most of the time anyway."
She purses her lips, but she doesn't lie down again. "And you?"
He shrugs. "I stuck around for a little while."
Hawke gives him a scathing look. "What did you tell her?" This is a demand.
He looks up suddenly. His eyes are rimmed red; from the interrogation or the whiskey, she isn't sure. "I refused to leave. Daisy was with us for a little while. You disappeared for a few days. Daisy made her decision and left. You never came back to me. I drifted."
She is taken aback. She says the only thing she can think of. "She believed you?"
"Of course. What's the point in lying?" He sighs and shakes his head, leaning back. For the first time in three years she notices how weary he is, and wonders if she's done the right thing, and if it's too late to try. Finally, he meets her eyes. "I told her everything."
She is Marian Hawke again – there is a gleam in her eyes that betrays what she's thinking. What she doesn't say is that there will be no hovering on the outskirts anymore – she doesn't say that she's sorry, or that she'll make it up to him, or that she's serious about this. He already knows all of that.
What she does say, with a smile and her head tilted to the side, is, "Everything?"
He gives her a wicked grin, leaning forward to cup her chin with his hand, and her smile softens as she leans into it. He winks at her as he rubs a rough thumb across her cheek. "Don't worry – I skipped the part about us."