"That'd be a marvelous idea- except the Crows are still thick in Antiva and wish me dead." He may have been killing them off in his free time, of which he had plenty, the past few years. Still- There is that wavering moment and Zevran is glad for their privacy, the faint softness around his eyes when he reaches up to rest a hand on Alistair's shoulder could be...misinterpreted.

As something more than friendly concern.

Which is all it was.

"Alas, no. I am stuck seeing this through to the end- for which I blame you. How dare you offer such a sterling example of how one doesn't go mad, drink themselves into a stupor, and flee the country." Most of what he'd cobbled together so far was, more or less, patterned after how they'd handled things during the Blight. Zevran has no idea what he's doing- but is half certain he won't survive long enough for the fallout to make him look bad.