Chapter Text
Now, typically he enjoys having the company of other Cookies whenever researching. He has his pupils, students, and followers for that very specific reason. However, he has come to appreciate the Saint’s company— very much so, if he’s willing to admit.
No offense to the other Emissaries, he adores them very much and appreciates their efforts and work, but none of them are quite like… well, like her.
The Saint is a brilliant being to work alongside, diligent and hardworking. Whenever they work together, he finds their research has doubled what he had originally anticipated. The Fount is even sure he laughs more often next to her. The others never quite fit the mold of a “good study buddy” when it comes to personal indulgences like his own research.
The Herald of Change is more interested in history, the cultures that came along with the past, specifically searching for the sprouts he had no involvement in creating. A constant rise and fall of civilization, he gets especially “huffy” when one sprout is too similar to another. He never pays attention to mathematical concepts or analysis unless it involves architecture.
The Fount hates to admit it, but he swears the Herald uses their shared time more like a traveling brochure. He always searches for new places to visit, only to be unusually disappointed by the time he returns.
The latest visit lasted only a mere week before the Herald returned. His face had been visibly scrunched, morphed to a deep scowl, as he squeezed the very life out of the poor map the Fount had given him.
“What’s wrong with that one?” The Fount asked, flabbergasted.
The Herald had dropped the map directly onto his palms, every area he had visited scratched out with his own claws. “They just weren’t as…” he grumbled something, shaking his head. “…unique as I was anticipating.”
That was the only thing he said before retreating the Spire.
The Bringer of Happiness… Witches bless her, she is not a very good student. She gets distracted very easily, the Fount can hardly read a full paragraph to her without her jumping out of her seat to frantically fulfill the Happiness of a passing Cookie.
“They were feeling exceptionally gloomy, I had to do something! I would hate to let their unhappiness grow,” she always says, with that peculiar pout that could tug at anycookie’s heartstrings.
The Witches only know how many times he himself has fallen victim to it, whenever she grows bothered by his time spent within the Spire.
“You don’t want your Cookies to be unhappy, do you? I certainly don’t, the poor things.”
He would only sigh and slam his head against the table. “You know what would make me VERY happy?” That always made the Bringer snap to attention— even if it meant he had to clean a flurry of feathers afterwards. “If you could just sit with me and actually pay attention. Just… please.”
He could see the very tips of her fangs press against her bottom lip when she smiled at him. One pretty hand came to massage the back of his head, the light scraping of claws against his scalp feeling oddly soothing. Vaguely, he could register the softness of feathers brushing his back. He sighed again, deeply.
“Oh, my handsome Fount… how could I possibly deny you such simple Happiness when you beg so prettily?”
At the very least, the Bringer actually attempts to stay still and ignore whatever fuzzy feelings she senses whenever they speak of psychology and the science of the Cookie mind.
Fortunately, the Fount has grown highly resistant to her exploits. Not invulnerable, exactly, but he has definitely grown stronger in comparison to, say, the Justiciar of Solidarity (he couldn’t last a second against her).
Speaking of… the Justiciar isn’t much help, either. The Fount appreciates his time with his closest allies, yes, very much so.
…Again, he appreciates his time with his CLOSEST ALLIES, the Fount does not stretch his affection to the strange creatures some of them bring along. He cannot keep dealing with that dreaded beast the Justiciar always brings along with him!
“Nox Blacksalt is but my trusty steed,” the Justiciar had said, mounted atop his absolute unit of a horse. The ghastly thing is huge, the Fount only makes it to its chest! “She comes with me wherever I go— we never spend a day apart. Are you sure she cannot come with?”
“Yes, I am very much aware of your… closeness with the equine, my friend,” the Fount had said, with visibly strain in his smile. His hand had already come to his scalp the moment he caught eye of the beast, tugging at the strands until it popped. “But she cannot come INSIDE the Spire, as I’ve already told you many times before!”
Silence followed, for a moment. The Justiciar kept staring down at him, unmoving, as the Fount released his hair. Nox merely snorted, shaking its mane.
“…Are you sure?”
“Oh, my Witches— YES!”
After much experimentation and observation, the Fount can officially conclude that, yes, indeed, the Saint of Volition is the most competent Emissary to work alongside with. He can actually get stuff done and have somebody to listen and bounce back off of, hours of careful conversation and exchanged notes peeling by, cut apart only when their schedules inevitably demand them to return to their duties.
Funnily enough, she is also the one who is always just out of his research. Always busy with her followers, that Cookie— rarely does she ever bring Fount over to her own domain.
Quite frankly, he had always assumed it was because his Spire is quieter and less densely populated in comparison. At the very least, the majority of people within are his underlings who typically keep to themselves, deep into their own studies.
The Ivory Pagoda is infamous for its overcrowdedness, from the personal account of the Saint herself as well as the Justiciar, who frequently visits the domain. And while the Fount hasn’t necessarily seen the worst of it himself, he assumes it can easily grow overwhelming for one Cookie alone.
Plus, the Spire of Knowledge has its own vast library, making it all the more appealing. Not that they necessarily use it, considering most of their time together is spent primarily in the Fount’s private office. He has a wide collection of incense in there just to prove it. He even assisted in publishing some of the Saint’s public essays and speeches!
…Even if she can be rather resistant to his assistance at certain times.
Sometimes, when their schedules refuse to match up, the Saint comes into the Spire’s library without his presence. The Fount doesn’t mind it— his space is hers— but it does bother him that she’s juuust of his reach, despite being so close by. He just cannot stand it.
Now, he cares for the education of all Cookiekind very, very much— he was created for that very purpose, with nothing worthwhile beyond that.
He lectures pretty much every hour of every day, spinning a wheel and deciding on what he’ll teach depending on the suggestion of his students. He adores how passionate they can be in their own individual pursuits of knowledge, and their willingness to do anything for it.
However, he’s sure they can forgive him if he cancels a lecture… or, ahem, several, whenever the Saint comes for an unexpected visit.
He had cancelled one of his lectures at the very last second, just to get the chance of seeing her in her element.
The Saint makes a very diligent researcher, carefully picking her own sources and analyzing them for the exact information she needs. It’s something of hers the Fount deeply admires in a Cookie, and she does it oh so wonderfully.
He can spend countless hours watching her work, truthfully. There’s a certain grace to everything the Saint does, precise and careful, that he simply cannot afford to take his eyes off of her. Not only that, but she is also a thing of beauty.
Typically, when a Cookie thinks of beauty, their first thought will always be the Bringer of Happiness. She is, after all, beauty and pleasure incarnate— very little competition in that regard. However, when the Fount thinks of beauty, his very first thought is the Cookie sitting right in front of him.
The embodiment of will itself, a being so kind and gentle no being can ever think of opposing her. Her complexion is beautiful, one he’s willing to admire for hours upon hours at a time, and never grow sick of it. She’s intelligent and wise; the exact qualities the Fount has always admired in a Cookie.
…Admittedly, all she’s doing is reading a pile of books and occasionally jotting down what she deems necessary, but there’s an entire population of Cookies who wouldn’t even do that. The Saint is a very respectable essayist, being able to write 50-page essays in a matter of days— that’s a feat beaten only by himself.
It’s a wonder, truly, what they could possibly do together if only they—
“Fount.”
The Fount immediately jolts, his hands instinctively slamming against the table. Immediately, he flinches as the sound echoes loudly in his office, the silence forcibly torn apart with just a simple call.
The Saint is staring at him now, from across the table, her eyebrow is raised. Held up between her two fingers is the page of her book, her reading paused just for his sake.
“I- um-“ the Fount swallows, a sudden dryness tightening his throat. He coughs harshly, covering his mouth with his sleeves (rather uncouth, but there are no napkins nearby). His face feels awfully warm. “Yes, I hear you. Is something wrong?”
“I should ask you that.” The Saint doesn’t look away for even a moment. At the very least, she appears curious. “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes.”
He swallows again. His throat feels itchy. “Have I?”
“I can feel it,” she says. “And you haven’t looked down at all. You aren’t necessarily being subtle.”
“Oh.”
“You looked distracted…” the Saint tilts her head, just far enough for him to catch. “Is something bothering you?”
The Fount immediately jumps in his seat, a sudden burst of cold, icy panic flooding his dough. “NO!” Flinching under the volume of his own voice, he shrinks into his seat. “Sorry, no. I’m fine. Everything’s a-okay.”
The page has fallen limp, slipping right past the Saint’s fingers. Her hands settle on her lap. “I apologize if this is a bad time for you, truly,” she sighs. She closes her eyes for a moment, lips pursed, before she looks at him again. “There’s just… I’ve been…”
The Fount doesn’t move, waiting patiently for the proper words to come to mind. The Saint gestures vaguely with her hand, shaking her head with particular distaste, before a heavy sigh escapes her.
“…A lot of things can grow overwhelming, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no!” The Fount frantically waves his hands in the air, eyes larger than a bug trapped in a trap. “Of course, I understand. It’s- uh…”
His head turns towards the door of his office. There’s voices outside— his students, presumably, heading towards the library. They fade away after seconds. “It’s no big deal, really. I enjoy spending time with you.”
The Saint looks down at the book set out before her. She stays quiet. Fount almost curses himself, fingers curling harshly into the fabric of his sleeve cuffs, until he hears, “I do too.”
It was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. Quite frankly, he believed his ears were pulling tricks on him, until— out of the corner of his eye— the Saint ducks her head, just so he can’t see her flushed face. It brings him a delightful warmth, an instinctive smile stretching across his face.
The Saint quickly clears her throat and picks up the book again, and mindlessly flips through its contents. “I wanted to spend another hour here, if I can,” she says. “I have another speech in three days, and there’s still more I desire to add. There’s something I’m missing.”
“Oh!” The Fount immediately reaches over the table, towards the stretch of parchment inked with the notes she had jotted down. “I can help, certainly. If there’s something specific-”
“Fount.” The Saint’s hand comes to rest over his, gently pushing it back. The heat across his face grows worse. “As much as I would appreciate your assistance, I’d prefer to do this myself.” Looking down at her parchment again, she continues. “There is not much left to do, anyway. Just a couple sentences more.”
The Fount slumps back to his seat, his bottom lip pushing out in a particularly childish pout. He’s just about to cross his arms over his chest— until, at least, an idea sparks him.
“…Can I, with your very explicit permission…” Pressing his hands together, the Fount gestures towards the parchment. “…proofread it?”
The Saint blinks at him. She opens her mouth, yet nothing escapes her. She promptly shuts it, just to smile pleasantly at him. “I always double check my work.”
“Uhh-“ The Fount quickly begins to sweat, tugging at his collar. “You know, one can’t go without a second opinion! Peer review can do you wonders!”
“Fount.”
“You— you know,” the Fount stammers, digging his fingers into the fabric of his collar. “Grammar checks, clarification checks, source checks, uhh…”
The Saint merely raises an eyebrow. The Fount attempts to mimic the smile on her face. He isn’t sure if it makes him appear less stressed, or more. “…Word checks?”
The Saint reaches for her discarded quill. “That’s just another way to say ‘grammar check’.”
The Fount huffs through his nostrils. “The point is: I’ll do every bit of checking I can. So, please,” he attempts reaching over again, gently gripping at her wrist as she moves to dip her quill in the ink bottle. “can I proofread it? Just as a little precaution, you never know! I can be very useful, I promise! …Please?”
“I am very much aware of that,” the Saint says, lightly tapping the tip of her quill against the rim of the bottle. “And I adore the way you always go out of your way to help others— even someone like I.”
She begins to scribble along the bottom of the page, presumably where she had left off. “But, really, I do not need the assistance. And what was it you always said about my essays?” She pauses, just to tilt her head at him. “Oh, yes— ‘even better than the work of my students’.”
The Fount sighs dejectedly, his head slamming against the table. The Saint quickly draws her quill back, droplets of ink staining the surface. Fortunately, it narrowly avoided staining the parchment— or worse, her clothes.
“Please do not use that against me,” he practically begs. “If they came to know about that…”
The Saint merely laughs, softly. She returns to jotting down her notes. “You know I wouldn’t,” she says. “I just enjoy seeing how you get whenever I mention it.”
The Fount huffs once he lifts his head, yet says nothing else in return. He reaches for the book spread out before him, cringing as he realizes he’s still on the very first page. Rather unfortunate. Regardless, he brings it up to his face, readjusting his monocle with a growing pout.
The Saint hums, seeing his behavior. “Does it bother you that much?”
The Fount lets his eyes graze the words inked on the page. All of it, familiar and as recognizable as his own dough. “Well…” he takes a long, deep breath. “No, not very much, I suppose. It's not at all the essay itself.”
The Saint quirks up an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s just- it’s-“ he sighs, closing his eyes for but a moment. “I don’t know. It gives me more opportunities to see you, is all. Like- like I said! I enjoy spending time with you.”
The Saint says nothing in return. Beyond the book, he can hear light shuffling from the other side. He doesn’t attempt to look up, merely listening as the quill dances across the parchment. In the depths in his mind, he’s already cursing himself, practically tugging out his hair at the utter embarrassment he just pulled. His dough feels terribly flushed, waves of burning heat clashing harshly against the icy coldness washing over him.
What a stupid thing to say. The Saint of Volition is an independent Cookie, capable of taking care of herself, of course she wouldn’t need his assistance. Somebody should just crumble him this instant, just to avoid thinking of this in the future. That is the only possible solution. Witches, why did he even insist on such a stupid—
“Well, it couldn’t hurt to have a second opinion, I suppose.”
The Fount immediately perks up, his fingers growing loose on his comically large book. It almost slips past his grip, seconds away from falling from his hands. He chokes down a gasp as he grabs it at the very last second, the warmth on his face reaching to a burning heat. He uses the book to cover his face.
The Saint sets the quill aside, waiting for the ink to dry more before picking up the parchment. Carefully, as if it were fragile, she slides it over to the other side of the table. The Fount sets the book back on the table, his pupils quickly dilating until his eyes are pools of black. If one didn’t know any better, he could easily be compared to an excited feline.
The Saint doesn’t even bother to hide her smile, soft and sweet (the Fount has already committed it to memory, years ago), as she sets her hands on her lap. “I need it done in two days, at the latest,” she says. “My speech is supposed to be in three.”
The Fount’s face splits into a slow, widening smile, growing so large his lips nearly split. His hands practically shake as he reaches for the parchment, touching it as if it’s the most delicate item in the world, before he brings it to his face.
The Saint’s handwriting is perfect, as it usually is. Every word is precise and carefully written, easy to read and wonderful to admire. Truly, the Fount expected nothing else from her.
“Of course,” he murmurs. Carelessly shoving his book aside and unintentionally throwing it right over the edge of the table (he’ll reprimand himself for it later), he sets the parchment right in front of him. “You can count on the Fount of Knowledge— it’ll be done in a jiffy!”
The Saint covers her mouth as she laughs, looking at the book laid out against the table leg. While the Fount checks over her work, she reaches for it.
“You can just put that back,” he says. “I’m not reading it.”
The Saint nods, and temporarily leaves just to place the book in its proper place. Thankfully, the Fount’s office has a much smaller library, meaning she can find its proper spot pretty easily.
The Fount busies himself with the parchment, letting himself fade into the words inked on the page. It’s a rather easy, instinctual process, one he’s done many times before. The entire room seems to fade to a hazy cloud, nothing more than surrounding fog that darkens his surroundings.
Indeed, every word is precise and well chosen, with no errors to be found. He didn’t expect anything else, to be truthful. As the Saint herself had mentioned, he wholly believes her work is at a higher level compared to those of his students. No offense to them, of course, but none of them could ever write anything as carefully thought out and analyzed as the Saint’s own work.
He wonders, vaguely, what it would be like to fully work alongside such a knowledgeable Cookie. He himself has been congratulated for his excellent research papers and his self-published books (which, funnily enough, all populate his libraries). What could they possibly create, fully working alongside each other?
The idea is forced to the very back of his mind, as the fog dissipates with the sound of jingling bells and tinkering porcelain.
Blinking rapidly, the Fount finds himself hunched over the table, his body shadowing over the stretch of parchment. The noise is coming from his side, which promptly stops once something brushes against his thigh.
Looking down, the Fount sees a wobbling silver tray, with two teacups on top, steam lazily curling into the air. A large, ceramic plate is settled right beside them, scones and white buns just mere inches from touching, with two smaller plates stacked on top of each other. There, he’s only just reminded of the food he had kindly asked from the kitchens, specifically for this very meeting. At the very edge of the tray are two points— furry, dark brown, and repeatedly twitching.
The Fount, upon realizing just what is underneath the tray, rushes to pick up the tray from the tiny creature. Indeed, beneath it is one of his rabbits, the bell on its collar jingling as all of the weight it carried is finally lifted off with ease.
Its ears immediately lift to their full height, twitching lightly, as the rabbit stares up at its creator with large, beady black eyes. The poor little creature wobbles on its feet, liberated from the heavy weight it had been forced to carry, before shaking its little head.
Every so often he’s reminded of the little creatures he allows to reside within the Spire, typically whenever they scurry through the halls carrying items for his students. It was a matter of impulse, growing curiosity on how creatures without cookie dough can be created— and, based on his favorite animals, he resulted in these little rabbit creatures that stand on two legs.
They are little more than an impulsive experiment, really. Adorable little things, but they’re… how can he say this in the nicest way possible?
They’re just… well… they’re thoughtless and unintelligent. They are driven by the desire to follow, doing the demands of Cookies without much reason, and are typically kept as little servants. They also seem to carry the instinct of hiding things, judging by the Fount’s inability to find any of the nests his creations had made in his Spire.
At the very least, he knows they taste intensely of milk chocolate.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he says, sighing dejectedly as he stares at the parchment. Fully against the possibility of staining such perfect work, the Fount bundles up the scroll and sets it aside— for the time being. “I could’ve just gotten it myself. The time just… slipped past me.”
The rabbit only twitches its nose up at him, his words bouncing off its furry hide, before it settles on the floor with a little plop. It rubs at its snout.
“Riiight.” The Fount breathes through his nostrils. He’s talking to a creature who cannot talk back— he must be desperate for somebody to talk to already. With his cheeks flushed in embarrassment, he turns back to the table, reaching for the two teacups.
They’re filled with, of course, tea— more specifically, rose tea and yaupon tea, made exactly how they prefer it (can it really be called tea if the majority of it is just milk?). The Fount delicately places the rose tea on the Saint’s side of the table, while he takes the yaupon for himself.
The Saint returns just a minute later, pausing as she notices the little critter right beside the Fount’s chair. She stares down at it, and it stares back with a stupidly blank expression. “Oh, hello.”
It waves at her with one stubby little paw.
The next thing the Fount knows, the rabbit has its own chair right beside the Saint’s. He keeps his whines of despair to himself.
“Was I gone that long?” She asks upon seeing the brand new items cluttering the table.
The Fount reaches for his cup, slowly bringing it up to his lips. “Just a couple minutes, at most.”
The taste floods his tastebuds. It’s slightly sweet, even with the extra milk poured in, with earthy undertones he can pick up. It’s something he finds pleasant, soothing his throat until he finally sets it down.
The rabbit squeaks in its seat. The Saint reaches for one of the scones, tearing off a small piece before placing it before the creature. Immediately, the rabbit jumps to its little paws, and grabs the piece. It brings it up to its snout to sniff at it curiously, before nibbling on the edge.
The Fount’s eyes immediately narrow. “You know, that reminds me of something,” he begins, his voice lowered— perhaps even a tad bit suspicious. “Something very important.”
The Saint, having been watching the little rabbit, slowly turns her head in his direction. “Yes?”
“Have you eaten yet?”
Within seconds, the Saint’s body tenses up. It’s not at all subtle. The Fount looks at her, eyebrow raised, as he receives no immediate answer.
“Saint,” he sighs, long and deep. Again, she doesn’t say a word, she just keeps staring at him. “Saint of Volition, I’m not hearing an answer from you.”
“Um…” She’s rubbing at her arm, looking at the side instead of him. A classic show of guilt, he knows. “When I woke up, I believe.”
“Uh huh.” He laces his fingers together, resting his elbows on the table. “Right.”
The Saint doesn’t look at him— at least not for a full minute. It’s like she’s expecting him to continue, perhaps even lecture, but he says nothing in return. It almost grows suspicious.
When no reprimand comes, the Saint slowly looks back at him. Then the rabbit began making noise again, so she fed it another piece of the scone. It stops to grab it, clearly pleased.
“I’m being completely serious, Fount,” she says.
“I am too.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“If I may ask,” the Fount begins. “What, exactly, was it that you ate?”
The Saint falls silent again. The rabbit squeals up at her, and she pets it between the ears. “White buns,” she says, quietly.
“And how many?”
A minute or two. “…One.”
The Fount is already reaching for one of the tinier plates. “And when, pray tell, did you wake up? Exact hour and minute, please.”
The Saint swallows deeply, her throat quivering for just a mere second. He never looks away from her, making sure to keep his eyes trained precisely on her face, memorizing every little action she does. Insistent petting, avoiding eye contact (he already knows her eyes are a deep shade of black), quicker in takes of air she’s attempting to hide by taking longer breaths— all signs of guilt he’s come to recognize.
And, as the compass points north, none of this leads to anything particularly positive.
“I haven’t slept since…” the Saint pauses, finally looking at him. She visibly cringes at his expression. “…It’s not important, really. My memory evades me.”
The Fount rises from his seat, already beginning to pack up all of the items laid out across the table. The quills, the ink bottles, the parchment, the books— everything, even with the Saint’s repeating protests.
“Forget the lectures,” he says, voice suddenly hardened. “Forget the speech, forget this entire study session— we’re doing something else.”
The Saint’s lips twitch up into a shaky smile, her hands already reaching out to stop him, yet she never truly touches him. “Ah, that really shouldn’t be necessary…”
The Fount only shakes his head. Sliding all of the items to the very edge of the table, he snaps his fingers. Immediately, a swirling blue vortex, glittering with distant stars, forms right next to the table. It yawns widely, humming loud enough to vibrate his eardrums, before he promptly shoves all of his items into whatever waits on the other side.
The rabbit looks at the vortex, and proceeds to get on its feet. Slowly moving towards the humming mass of shifting shadow, it crouches down, readying its little feet for one giant hop— just for the Saint to immediately grab it by the sides the moment its feet disconnect from the seat. It squirms lightly in her grasp, kicking its little paws, but it promptly stops as she brings it against her chest.
“Where exactly does that lead to?” She asks, her voice laced with worry. The little rabbit squeaks in her arms as she runs her fingers along its spine, nuzzling against her collarbones.
“Nowhere specifically,” he responds. “Just returns them to where they need to be.”
The Fount ends up putting the majority of the food on the Saint’s plate. She ends up cringing with every new scone and bun he adds to the plate, until at last he only has two of each on his own, and she gets the rest.
“I’m not that hungry,” she attempts to argue, pushing her plate towards the Fount. In response, he pushes it back to her. “Fount, really. I would eat if I were.”
“Can I be honest, just for a moment?” The Fount asks. The Saint doesn’t say anything, thus he continues. “I really, really, REALLY don’t believe you. At all. So why don’t we do a little something?”
“You cannot force me to eat.”
“I won’t,” he nods. “And since you don’t want to eat, I won’t eat either!”
Lounging back in his seat, he crosses his arms across his chest, growing pleased with himself of this entirely untested strategy. “We’ll just sit here, in complete silence, staring at the food, and not touch it. Deal?”
The Saint sighs deeply, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “This is completely unnecessary…”
“You know what else is unnecessary?” The Fount raises a brow. “Refusing to eat.”
“You hardly eat anything either.”
“This is not a competition on who can eat less. This is about not starving. I requested this food for a reason.”
The Saint rubs along her wrist, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have,” she says. “It would’ve saved the waste.”
“You know I’m not wasting this.” The Fount nudges at the plate. The Saint leans away from it. “Come onnn, Saint. Just a little nibble? An itty-bitty little bite?”
“Fount…”
The Fount laces his fingers together, his hands beneath his chin. “Pleeeeeaaase? For me?” The Saint still doesn’t appear particularly convinced, so he pulls out his final card. “The chefs will feel really sad and upset if you don’t eat the food they prepared for us.”
The Saint immediately glares at him, which he takes with glowing pride. “I’m beginning to think your empathy for me is nothing more than a dirty trick.”
The Fount merely sticks out his tongue, grinning. “If pulling tricks is what I need to get you to take care of yourself, I’d be happy to do more!”
The Saint had finally begun eating her portion, albeit occasionally tearing off small pieces just to feed their new companion. The creature happily takes each piece she offers, nibbling on it with small, dull teeth.
The Fount is willing to accept the compromise, however— for every item she finished, a bite he took from his own. Through meaningless conversations, back and forth wits, and the occasional squeaking from their new (uninvited) guest controlled by the occasional snack, their plates and teacups were finally empty.
By the end of it all, the Saint begins to pile all their dishes together while Fount pulls out napkins from his sleeve. He slides some on the Saint’s side of the table, right next to the pile of dishes.
She takes them without question, pressing one of them against her mouth. “You never told me her name.”
Readjusting his sleeves after his convenient little trick, he raises a brow. “Hm? Whose name?”
“The rabbit’s.” Her head tilts towards the creature in its own chair, kneading its little paws against the cushion (like a particularly mindless creature). “You never told me her name.”
“Uhh,” the Fount blinks, slowly. “It doesn’t have one.”
“Doesn’t she?” The Saint looks towards the rabbit. It’s already staring back, rather intently.
It tilts its head, apparently curious about the sudden attention. It doesn’t waste any time, however, as it’s already crawling towards her. The Saint moves back her arm, already aware of what this creature desires, until it hops boldly into her lap.
She smiles as she rubs between its ears. The rabbit coos happily in her lap. “I think she deserves one.”
The Fount doesn’t even realize there’s a pout on his face. It almost feels like the rabbit is mocking him. “Sure. Whatever you say.”
The next several minutes involved a constant back-and-forth of various different suggestions, one idea from one is always rejected by the other for some reason or another.
“What about Thumper?”
“Mmm… no. It doesn’t look like a Thumper, more like a Kneader. Caramel?”
“Her fur is dark brown.”
“Caramel can be dark brown.”
“It can be, if you burn it.”
It goes on longer than it should, with neither of them coming to a definitive answer. The conversation went on for so long the rabbit fell asleep, curled up in the Saint’s lap. She continues to pet it along its spine as it lightly snores away.
“A sleepy thing, eh?” The Fount sighs. He reaches for his teacup, just to stare dejectedly at its empty contents once he remembers he did, in fact, finish it.
“Mm.” The Saint nods. It’s only a second later that she lifts her head up. “What about Moon?”
“What?” The Fount, distracted by his own utter devastation, looks away from his teacup. “Did you say Noom?”
Her eyebrows quickly furrow. “I said-“ quickly, she pauses, then exhales with a growing smile. “…Yes, I said Noom.”
“Noom is cute,” he nods. “I like it. A lot.”
“Well, Noom it is.”
The Fount has never really… cared for an animal before. He never had the time, with his entire focus on lecturing and discovering more about this vast dessert world of Earthbread— but if the Saint so demands it, he’s willing to add it to his daily routine.
He already has all of the items he needs for animal care— a comfortable bed, toys, sweet treats, food, the whole mix… everything he needs, with the Saint’s insistence.
Preparing Noom’s part of his personal chambers is an easy fix. It just needs plenty of hiding corners and places to hide its esteemed “valuables” from its rivals. Nothing too difficult, he can say.
Setting up little towers and gates meant for the little creature surprisingly takes up a large portion of his private quarters. Not that he’s particularly bothered by it, considering he spends most of his time outside.
Noom has taking to running around the Fount’s room while he’s preoccupied, curiously poking its snout at everything it discovers. His cramped bookcase, his cluttered desk, the stars and moons and suns that hang from the ceiling (if it hops high enough to touch them), his telescope positioned near the window… everything, really. At the very least, he can associate the sound of a jingling bell with an out-of-trouble Noom.
The Fount included a little desk next to the large, fluffy bed, and placed a pile of paper with colored pencils on the side. He even supplied the little creature with its own miniature telescope, placed in front of a map of the outer galaxy. He was just about finishing carpeting the floor with soft blankets when the jingling of bells came closer and closer, until it stopped right behind him.
There’s a light tap against the Fount’s arm. He yelps loudly (embarrassing) as his head whips around, towards whatever disturbed his moment of subconscious. Looking behind him, Noom stares up at him with its large, beady eyes, before it lifts up what it found.
The Fount blinks, opening his mouth, before finally taking a good look at what it has in its paws. “…Now where in the Witches’ name did you find that?”
It’s a key— a golden one, to be more precise, as tall as Noom itself. It’s almost a replica of his own staff, albeit less detailed and extravagant. Noom holds it up towards him like a winning prize.
The Fount gently takes it from its paws, inspecting it with wide eyes. Noom squeaks, plopping down on the cushiony floor like its one goal has been achieved.
“You’re one curious little bugger, eh? I didn’t even know I had this,” he says, setting the item down on the floor. Noom happily takes it back, bringing the item close to its chest. “I suppose you can keep it, out of the kindness of my heart…”
The Fount grabs his own staff set on the floor before rising to his full height, groaning as he stretches his limbs. Leaning his weight against it, he notices Noom mimicking his every action with its own key. Despite his initial distaste, he finds himself smiling.
“You’re beginning to look like a little mini-me, aren’t you?”