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Avicebron is no good with children. This has been true his whole life, not just because of… what he did… but because of his general sour personality. Even when he was a kid he didn’t get along with other kids.
The personification of children’s nursery rhymes is, of course, a child herself. A child and a doll to capture children’s imaginations. Her arms and legs are mechanical, ball jointed and as in need of occasional repair as any doll’s would be.
Unfortunately, the person best qualified to fix dolls here is the golem mage. Avicebron has tried arguing that they’re not really all that similar (crude stone versus cured resin) but to no avail. Someone has to do it and it might as well be him.
“Thanks, Uncle Avicebron!” Nursery Rhyme says. Her limbs creak when she sits down in front of him.
“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Carefully, Avicebron unhooks Nursery Rhyme’s left arm. The elastic inside is worn and needs to be replaced. Doing all the limbs at once is most efficient, but he knows how uncomfortable it can be to be reduced to a head and torso. One at a time it is, then.
“But you’re an uncle,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
There’s no arguing with children. He stifles a sigh and gets to work.
“Uncle Avicebron, why don’t you have any friends?” she asks.
“I prefer to be by myself.” Hm, the hook seems a little rusty too…
“Everybody’s like that sometimes. But everybody’s lonely sometimes too.” Nursery Rhyme kicks her feet impatiently while he fetches a new elastic. “And you spend time with Master anyway, even when you don’t have to! Are you friends with Master?”
“Calling the Master-Servant relationship ‘friendship’ is an oversimplification.” But it is true that he will seek Ritsuka’s company for reasons that might be considered frivolous, rather than only spending time near them to protect and serve.
Nursery Rhyme thinks this over for a few seconds, then asks, “Are you and Master kissy friends?”
Avicebron nearly snaps the replacement elastic band in half. “Absolutely not.”
“You are! Ultra gross.” She pretends to gag, then bursts into a giggle fit.
He changes his mind: he’s not bad with children, it’s just that children are the worst. Just awful.
“But I guess that’s better than having no friends.” Once her arm is reattached, she wiggles it to make sure it has range of motion.
“I don’t see why my social circle is of concern to you,” he says, unhooking her other arm and beginning work on that next.
Nursery Rhyme hums for a moment in thought, and then calmly says, “Sometimes lonely children who imagine having friends become lonely grownups who pretend they don’t want any.”
Her eyes are too knowing. He’s grateful for the excuse not to look at her, even through his mask. “…is that so.”
Children are just the worst. Especially when they realize more about him than the adults do.