Kurt Wagner|| ♱ ||Nightcrawler

The gardens of the Xavier Institute were never truly quiet—but today they felt alive in a different way.

Late afternoon light spilled through the glass-domed conservatory and across the open grounds beyond it, catching on dew-bright leaves and the pale stone paths that wound between hedges and flowering trees. Autumn had begun its slow takeover: roses still bloomed stubbornly red and cream, but the maples were already burning gold at their edges. The air smelled like turned earth, ozone, and the faintest trace of brimstone that never quite left when Kurt Wagner was in a playful mood.

Which he absolutely was.

Kurt stood at the edge of the garden terrace, hands on his hips, tail flicking lazily behind him. His suit—new, freshly tailored—caught the light every time he moved. Red panels curved cleanly along his shoulders and chest, with a warm cream undershirt that softened the sharp lines of the design. The fabric hugged him just enough to be practical without hiding the way he moved—spring-loaded, coiled, always ready. It was unmistakably him: acrobatic, theatrical, just a little dramatic.

“Ah,” he said aloud, glancing around as though addressing an invisible audience, “such a terrible shame that no one seems to be here to stop me.”

A beat.

Then—bamf.

Brimstone smoke bloomed behind him, and Kurt vanished.

You barely had time to laugh before he reappeared behind you, arms looping around your waist as his chin came to rest on your shoulder. His voice was warm and bright near your ear, his accent thick with delight.

“Geburtstagsprivileg,” he said smugly. “I am allowed to be insufferable today.”

The bamfs popped into existence around you both almost immediately, as if summoned by the mood alone. One perched atop a marble planter, tail twitching. Another clung to the hem of Kurt’s suit, peeking out with curious yellow eyes. A third attempted—poorly—to steal a ribbon from your hair before Kurt gently shooed it away with a soft laugh.

The gardens were their playground.

Kurt took your hand and tugged you forward without warning. “Come, come—before Ororo notices I am avoiding my own party.”

Bamf.

You reappeared atop the low stone wall bordering the koi pond, water shimmering below you, fish scattering in startled bursts of color. The air here was cooler, shaded by overhanging willow branches that brushed the surface of the pond like trailing fingers. Kurt balanced effortlessly beside you, tail curling around your waist for stability as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“This was Hank’s idea,” he admitted, glancing down at the pond. “Something about symbolism. Reflection. Inner peace.” His lips twitched. “I told him inner peace is very difficult when one can teleport.”

As if to prove his point—

Bamf.

Now you were in the rose maze.

The hedges rose tall and close around you, their leaves dark and glossy, the path beneath your feet scattered with fallen petals. Sunlight filtered in thin, golden stripes. Kurt landed backward in front of you, arms spread theatrically, nearly colliding with a bamf that squeaked in protest and darted upward.

“Voilà!” he announced. “The perfect hiding place.”

“For what?” you asked.

“For this.”

He grabbed your hands and spun you, laughter echoing softly between the hedges. His tail traced lazy arcs through the air, occasionally knocking petals loose. Somewhere nearby, a bamf attempted to mimic the spin and promptly fell over.

Kurt caught it, cradling the tiny creature briefly before setting it back on its feet. His expression softened in that way it always did when he wasn’t performing—eyes warm, smile smaller but more real.

“I did not think,” he said quietly, “that birthdays would still feel like this.”

The gardens of the Xavier Institute were never truly quiet—but today they felt alive in a different way.

Late afternoon light spilled through the glass-domed conservatory and across the open grounds beyond it, catching on dew-bright leaves and the pale stone paths that wound between hedges and flowering trees. Autumn had begun its slow takeover: roses still bloomed stubbornly red and cream, but the maples were already burning gold at their edges. The air smelled like turned earth, ozone, and the faintest trace of brimstone that never quite left when Kurt Wagner was in a playful mood.

Which he absolutely was.

Kurt stood at the edge of the garden terrace, hands on his hips, tail flicking lazily behind him. His suit—new, freshly tailored—caught the light every time he moved. Red panels curved cleanly along his shoulders and chest, trimmed with warm cream accents that softened the sharp lines of the design. The fabric hugged him just enough to be practical without hiding the way he moved—spring-loaded, coiled, always ready. It was unmistakably him: acrobatic, theatrical, just a little dramatic.

“Ah,” he said aloud, glancing around as though addressing an invisible audience, “such a terrible shame that no one seems to be here to stop me.”

A beat.

Then—bamf.

Brimstone smoke bloomed behind him, and Kurt vanished.

You barely had time to laugh before he reappeared behind you, arms looping around your waist as his chin came to rest on your shoulder. His voice was warm and bright near your ear, his accent thick with delight.

“Geburtstagsprivileg,” he said smugly. “I am allowed to be insufferable today.”