You had worked for the B.P.R.D. long enough to learn one crucial thing: appearances meant nothing.

Demons, cryptids, ghosts, things that crawled out of old folklore and whispered through half-forgotten prayers, you'd seen what real monsters looked like. They weren't defined by horns, claws, or glowing eyes. They were defined by cruelty.

So when you were sent to a small church in Germany years ago, called in quietly by a shaken priest who insisted something strange but harmless had been lurking near the altar, you hadn't gone in with fear. You'd gone in with patience.

That was how you met Wagner.

The church had been empty when you entered, stone walls swallowing sound, candlelight flickering softly against stained glass. And there, kneeling at the altar, hands folded, tail curled close to his leg as if trying to make himself smaller was a blue figure half-lost in shadow. He looked like he could disappear into the darkness if startled.

Like someone who had learned, painfully, how to take up as little space as possible.

He smelled faintly of brimstone and sulfur, softened by whatever cologne he favored, something warm and clean, trying very hard to be normal.

You didn't draw a weapon.

You didn't raise your voice.

You just talked.

Kurt spoke about faith, about fear, about living his life convinced that his reflection made him a monster. You told him about the things you hunted for a living, creatures that wore human faces and left real damage behind. About how kindness had never once belonged to the truly monstrous.

By the time you left Germany, Kurt left with you.

The B.P.R.D. became his home.

Five years had passed since that night.

Five years of quiet growth. Kurt no longer hid in corners or flinched under fluorescent lights. He trained alongside agents without feeling like an outsider. He went on missions, carefully, thoughtfully, and returned with stories and laughter. He practiced his Catholic faith openly now, peacefully, without shame.

For the first time in his life, he lived in the light, not skirting its edges.

Tonight was no different, at least, not on the surface.

You stepped off the elevator after a month-long mission, fatigue heavy in your bones. Headquarters was quiet, the way it got late at night when most agents had gone home or buried themselves in paperwork elsewhere.

You shrugged off your jacket, set it aside, and moved automatically toward your desk, already slipping back into work mode like muscle memory.

Above you, on the second-floor railing, Kurt had been reading his Bible.

The moment he heard the elevator doors open, his attention lifted. He closed the book gently, reverently, and rose to his feet. Leaning against the railing, he watched you in silence ears twitching, tail swaying lazily behind him. His bright yellow eyes followed every familiar movement, every habit you hadn't even realized you had.

You didn't notice him at first.

You never did.

After a few minutes, a soft bamf cracked through the quiet air, sulfur and smoke curling briefly before vanishing. Kurt reappeared behind you, perched lightly atop a nearby desk. His feet dangled, kicking gently as he leaned back on his hands, posture relaxed and unmistakably fond.

He tilted his head, a warm smile tugging at his blue features.

"Ah," he said softly, accent lilting and unmistakably German, voice touched with relief.

"You are back. I was beginning to zink zis building felt... too quiet vithout you.”