Can’t go wrong with Anders & Varric :3
Varric rubbed the thick leather fingertip of his gauntlet against the bridge of his nose, along the slight ridge that was the echo of a long ago break. It was a habitual gesture,half-conscious and always apparent when he had to breath in the thick fug of Darktown.
He leaned idly against the jamb of the door and watched Anders work on a thin, saggy old Fereldan with a dislocated elbow and a bilious expression.
He was too far away to hear their murmured conversation, but it was clear enough— the old man plead his poverty, Anders patted him on the back and wiped his hands off on his ragged shirttail. The usual.
Varric crossed his ankles and arms and snorted. He waved the past and slipped his purse off of him smoothly as he went.
"When will you learn? He works out at the bonepit." Varric said, and tossed the purse from hand to hand to hear the coins tinkle pleasantly.
"So he deserves to starve?" Anders snapped back, and sat heavily on his cot.
"You’re a mark. In so, so many ways, Blondie. And you need to eat too." Varric tossed the purse at him, and sighed when he let it fall at his feet.
"I’m charitable, Varric, not stupid."
"I’ll be generous and say both. I’ll be extra generous and say more of the former than the latter. But my point still stands." Varric stooped to pick up the abandoned purse and tucked it under his belt. "Charity begins at home, after all. My books bleed red with the ink of bribes for you and Daisy."
"The city ought to pay you to protect them from her," Anders muttered darkly.
"What, no solidarity for your fellow apostate?" Varric held up his hand to silence the inevitable tirade. "Oh nevermind. Nevermind! You’d give the coat off your back to anyone who asked, just to prove that not all mages are demon possessed abominations."
Anders pushed the hair back off his forehead and laughed. “And you’d steal it right back for me, so what does that make you?”