Doc probably shouldn't laugh but Malcolm looks so nervous, he couldn't help that warm little noise bubbling out of him. Settling back down and stretching out the length of the bed again, Doc turns inwards to face them, hand smoothing over that impossibly narrow waist and purposefully disrupting Malcolm's fidgeting hands, reaching over until his fingertips bump against Raylan's hip.

"We've got you," he promises in a loveresque murmur, eyes closed and a stray leg away from a snuggle. "It's okay to take things slow. And just... drift. Thoughts will come. Breathe 'em in, let 'em come. And let 'em go. It's okay. You're okay." Where he can't be making relaxants or what-have-you, someone's been picking up meditative and sleeping tips from the library in his spare time.

His hand drifts up the sheets in the space between Malcolm and Raylan, giving Raylan's elbow a nudge to encourage his arm to move.