Varric, for once in his life, has no words. He stares at Hawke a minute, then grimaces and scratches at one cheek, just where the stubble thins out and gets annoying.

"Well. Shit," he sighs, and pulls out a chair of his own. They'd taken almost everything he had on him, when he arrived— his coat, his bootknife, hell even his leg-brace, to say nothing of Bianca— or whatever was left of her, "I guess saying I'm an old friend doesn't exactly cut it. We do get into the weirdest shit, don't we?"

It's phrased like a question, but it isn't one; now that he's slowed down, Varric can see it. The way the wrinkles are fallen off, and how Hawke looks like he's gotten a decent sleep in recent days, and the general... ease, in the way he moves. Hawke never did stand quite right, after the Arishok— oh, he said it was fine, but...

Getting distracted. Focus.

"Varric Tethras, at your service," He says, and it just doesn't have the same jaunty ring it did in Hightown's market, all those years ago. Maybe there's a few reasons for that. But he is so, so glad to see you, Hawke, "I'd introduce you to my crossbow, but wouldn't you know it, I'm unarmed. How's it going?"