April 22, 2293
This may be my last entry. No, it is my last entry. No more lies to myself. I have two things to say, and then I'll put down some details, and then I'll walk away from this head-in-the-clouds project. I've been a fool. And the woman who destroyed the Institute does not deserve to be lied about in a friend's journal, even a private journal. So first off, I've been lying in this journal. Second, Sheila—with some help from the Railroad—has destroyed the Institute and personally killed Shaun. Damn.
Right. It's time to stop fantasizing about what I wish were true and enjoy what is true. Her friendship means more to me than anything. But the truth isn't what I've been writing. She never said my name while she slept. I've never touched her face or hair. Though we spent Christmas together, there were no quiet sighs. I haven't had my arm around her. Sure, most of this has been exactly what happened. Everything except touching her, feeling her, sharing an unspoken love with her.
I want to hold her close, of course. Always will, I suspect.
Oh, I do love her. That's true enough. Has been from almost the first moment we met, and not just because she rescued this old synth. And she… she cares about me, I know. Calls me more human than any human she's known. But I'm not sure there's room in her heart for romance after Nate. I've enjoyed imagining that there's more to our relationship, but there isn't. And I wouldn't want that for her, anyway. When she does move on enough to love deeply again, I want her to have someone worthy of her. And that's not someone with half-skin, exposed wires, and only one tattered outfit. What do I have to offer her? "Come share my detective agency. I have a twin bed with no room for another one, but I don't really use it anyway. Also I'm a cop from hundreds of years ago and the Institute made and trashed me." No. She's better than that. Better than me.
I may still dream about touching her hair and pulling her close, but that doesn't mean I should ever do it—and I definitely shouldn't write about it and call it my "journal," either. Maybe it should be "Nick Valentine, personal fantasies."
Well, this isn't a fantasy. Sheila realized that Shaun and the Institute were a permanent threat to the Commonwealth. We talked about it, about this step she was about to take. I told her I supported her, but I understood if she decided not to go through it with it. "You're the one who told me that this would be necessary," she said grimly. I racked my brain, filing through my conversations with her to remember what she was talking about. "You're the one who told me about the provisional government massacre," she added. Oh. That. Yeah. "Nick," she added, "Shaun lied to me about it. He told me that the Institute had tried to help create a stable Commonwealth government but that bickering and infighting led to 'disaster.' That's when I knew. Either the Institute's representatives hadn't let the director in on it, which seems highly unlikely, or he was using partial truths to manipulate and mislead me. It was sadly obvious which was true. I don't know if the synth malfunctioned or if it was ordered to kill everyone at the CPG, but does it matter? It doesn't. The Institute has to be stopped. They either intend to rule and exploit the whole Commonwealth by terror and plunder… or they're both incompetent and determined to cover their incompetence. If you play with fire and can't admit and offer restoration when you burn someone's house down, is it really any different from burning it down deliberately?"
"Sheila?" I said. And I really did say it, even though I didn't cup her face in my hands and look into her eyes the way I wanted to. "This is your son. Can you live with yourself if you do this?"
"I gave birth to him, Nick. But he's… he's not my son. I will always mourn what could have been, but my son would have been brought up with respect for all people. Also, I know how you feel about it, but he also would've been brought up to respect the law I spent my life studying and his father spent his life defending. The kindest thing I can do for the monster he's become is to end it and destroy his hideous legacy." I saw her eyes harden and knew the decision was made.
"I'll come with you," I said.
"It's going to be dangerous," she said, half-smiling. "And I know that you'll come anyway. I accept. Just don't… don't make me walk out of there without you."
"So many questions I'm never going to get answered," I mused. "But I've done well enough so far. And I'll have your back while you have mine. It's how we've worked and how we'll still work."
We did it, then. With the rest of the Railroad, I teleported into the Institute when Sheila, already on the inside, gave us the signal. It was a chaotic battle, but I found her quickly and we moved into our familiar search-for-threat patterns without discussing it. I stood quietly by when she talked to her aged, infirm son. I watched her back while she placed the bomb in their nuclear reactor, and I ran with her to get the hell out of Dodge before the whole shebang blew. I stood by her side when we watched from a distance and saw—and slightly felt—the impact. She made a couple of other stops, several to synths. I realized what she was doing: she was reminding herself of why that drastic step had been necessary. Seeing the palpable relief and sense of freedom in many faces as we gave them the news, that was a balm to the aching heart.
She then asked me to come with her back to the Glowing Sea to give Virgil the information. Not only is he completely well now, with not even a tinge of green to his complexion, but he's also no longer hunted. I shouldn't have been surprised when Sheila recruited Brian Virgil to teach in her new college. He's obviously one hell of a bioscientist. I also saw the way he looked at her. Maybe he would be good for her. He's a smart man who's been through tragedy.
At least looking like this means nobody would question my close friendship with her. I doubt that any jealous boyfriend… or husband… would begrudge her the time she spends working with me.
It kills me to think like this.
It's not fair to her not to think like this.
No more entries. Maybe I can take some more cases… alone. Surely there are a few back home in Fenway by now, and if not there, Goodneighbor. Maybe they'll be dangerous. I'll check back here in a month to see if she needs me, and if not… maybe I won't check in for a few months, and then a few years, and maybe this ache in my nonexistent heart will ease off on the throttle a bit.