Like fat Prophets, Profits? Profits.

Mariam would never be able to look away from him when he tapped into his reserve of magic, to see his eyes glow like they did when he summoned up whichever school he was going to use, healing this time, she knew, but it never failed to give her pause, to make her gaze be drawn to those orbs that normally held mischief and sorrow deep within their glassy depths. The ozone smell that followed, and the charged feeling along her skin, the way the small hairs on her body would stand up when that tap was made -- all of these things that held her captivated by him in that moment.

Ach, alright. You touch all the torches now. I trust ya, Gabe.

She squared up with him, trying to relax her body, as she laid her forehead on his shoulder to let him work. Breathing out, she knew it wouldn't be on three, it'd be one the single count or a few moments after the lat count to keep her off kilter, and as expected, the second count came and she couldn't help the cry that came from her as he finished sliding the bone back into the socket properly. She knew it would only be for a few more moments, so as she waited for that soothing touch of his magic, she hummed to keep her mind occupied. Ya owe me an ale after that, and one day I will collect.

She teased between clenched teeth, her forehead still resting on his shoulder. Or any other way you plan on paying that back.