Nick Valentine
Personal Journal
December 28, 2292
It seems I worried for nothing—mostly.
Sheila's making her stand and has chosen her alliances. She's betraying the Brotherhood and she's on the inside of the Institute to spy for the Railroad. She said something about not blowing her Institute cover yet and needing to tell me some things about them when she's ready to talk about it. But the situation is increasingly complex.
Take Danse (no please, take him). Pain in the neck, if not lower. But I can't help but feel sorry for the idiot. Talk about self-hating. Bad mess, that. But it's worse than just being his very own personal tragedy. People all over the Commonwealth are afraid that synths are replacing their loved ones, friends, elected officials… but if they knew about this? That they themselves might be synths and not even know it? The paranoia would reach new heights. Damn the Institute for that alone.
When she came back last week, I confronted her, told her that I needed to know where her endgame was heading, whether she thought she could just indefinitely balance all her alliances. That's when she let me know that things were coming to a head even faster than I thought… That the Brotherhood has assigned her to wipe out the Railroad. "The Railroad and the Minutemen, that's where my loyalties are now," she said, making it clear. She brought up loyalties, so I asked if she had any leads on Shaun. She was quiet, closing her eyes. "Just can't talk about it," she finally said. I wish I could go down to the Institute with her, provide her support and another pair of eyes and ears. But that device she uses lets only one through. Just as well. Maybe the Institute wouldn't like their trash walking back in. Anyway, I suspect the Institute is letting her see just enough of the kid to keep her on a tight leash to do their dirty work. I don't want to play my ace yet, and hopefully I won't have to, but if she starts to go too far for them, I'll pull out the big gun.
I'll ask her if she thinks it's good that the Institute has turned her into their new Kellogg.
Low blow? Absolutely. But the Institute isn't above low blows itself. They killed her husband and stole her kid right in front of her. I trust she hasn't forgotten that part.
Given everything we've been through, I asked her if she'd like to take a day or two off—maybe go to one of the settlements, maybe stay in Diamond City and not leave home. I told her I'd stay with her or leave her alone as she chose. She was about to brush off the suggestion when I pointed out the date—Christmas Eve. I suggested we go to Sanctuary Hills, but she didn't want to go there. We stayed in her Diamond City pad instead. The place she bought is bigger than mine. Noisier, too, but it has a nice little balcony with a few chairs where you can overlook the whole market district. I walked her to the doorstop and was going to leave her alone, but when I tipped my hat and started to go, she took my hand. "Don't," she said. "Stay," she said.
"Ah, you don't want to be alone on Christmas?" I asked, walking in and closing the door behind us, not wanting to show how pleased I was. I didn't want to be alone on Christmas.
"I wouldn't mind, but I would rather be with you," she said. I don't have internal organs, but I'd swear I felt my heart flip. I remembered how coy Jenny could be. She played the game, kept him guessing, pretended she could live without him until she'd thoroughly reeled Nick in. She wouldn't always answer when he called, even if she was right beside the phone. When they were dating, she wore nonchalance like I wear this trench coat. He found Jenny's games endearing, but it's not what I would want. The direct "I want you," spoken without guile or artifice, it moves me. So I looked at her and she looked at me. I reached up with my exposed hand, the one without even the semblance of skin. My fingers traced the line of her cheek—so beautiful. She leaned into my touch… even though it's the touch of skeletal metal fingers. She leaned into my hand.
Looking back at that moment, I'm not sure what possessed me. Before she could react, I scooped her up, one arm under her back and the other under her knees. I took her to the couch where I gently set her down upright. I took one of her blankets and set it around her before taking a seat next to her. She shook her head, set the blanket to the side, and crawled into my lap, tucking her head under my chin like a child. I waited but a moment to start stroking her hair. It seemed that touching her face and picking her up opened the floodgates, and she would no longer be denied the proximity she craved. She whispered my name, and I said, "I'm here. And I'll be here."
Most of the time, I curse whoever built me to have touch sensations. Usually, touch for me is pain—too often involving someone shooting at me. But in that moment, I realized I would take a hundred bullets and be grateful as it enabled me to also feel the fineness of her hair. To hold her and know how exquisitely soft she felt was worth the pain of a thousand injuries. She stayed in my lap for over three hours while I combed my fingers through her hair, over and over, memorizing her tiny sounds of breath and heartbeat. When she finally fell asleep, I stood, cradling her and carrying her to bed. She stirred, and I stroked her hair again until she settled back. The truth is, I found myself continuing to touch her hair long after her deep, even breaths indicated that she was well asleep.
Easily the best Christmas Eve in recent memory. We spent two more days in her Diamond City home talking about nothing. She especially likes hearing about my old cases. Won't lie… still a bit disgusted that she was a lawyer. One of these days I'm going to have to ask her more about that—sometime when the answer won't matter so much. Worse, I'm also going to have to ask her why she wants a half-broken Institute-rejected synth when she could have someone flesh and blood—or hell, if she's into synths, one of those new models with pristine skin, one much less battered than a synth born in a dumpster.
God forbid I enjoy being happy and just try not to screw it up.
I always have to understand. It eats away at me until I do. That's how I got into this line of work in the first place.