Some parts of that suggestion are appealing. The we is not. The we sounds like torture.

"Maybe another time," Alistair says, which is at least a step back from being done with everyone forever. He touches his neck where the ointment is cooling on his skin. "I'm tired. And sitting next to you makes me uglier in comparison. I know you mean well but you're really the opposite of helpful."

That's not true. Some people, for whatever reason, genuinely prefer enormous lumpy gingers, and Zevran is surely deft and kind enough not avoid poaching those who don't. But Alistair really is tired (in his heart) and really is going to bed. Alone.