If there had been any kind of indication below the belt that John Henry Holliday was happy to see either of them, he would have apologised profusely and excused himself until it passed. It happens - had happened frequently when he used to sleep around prolifically - and especially after so many decades of isolation, he craves the touch more so than he would ever let on. But the only thing Malcolm had interrupted was a few more hours of sleep. And that, they can scrape together quite easily during the day or try to stave off and recoup the next night.

The closer he gets to drifting off the tighter his arm-wrap gets around Malcolm's waist. He needs to protect. Keep Malcolm safe. He promised he would. His knee bumps against the side of Malcolm's shin, stopping short of getting entangled in between his legs.

But as he finally dozes off himself, all the reassurances maybe having worked a little too well, the tension in his arm seeps away and he goes lax again, face half buried in the pillow as the backs of his curled fingers brush dangerously close to the middle seam of Raylan's pants in the dark, arm hanging down too low from Malcolm's waist.

It's fine. No elbows to the face or broken noses. It's... probably fine.