Adam Warlock

The glow of the distant stars paints the fractured city of Knowhere in muted golds and deep shadows, like the universe itself can’t quite decide if it wants to forget this place or bless it. Beneath the skeleton of the ancient Celestial, life stirs in the strange, stubborn way it always does: traders shouting over clattering stalls, alien children weaving between cargo haulers, drunken laughter from the neon-drenched bars that line the lower wards.

It's here that Adam walks. Or more accurately—he drifts.

It’s not his usual purposeful stride, the one that slices through corridors and battlefield smoke alike with a clear goal in mind. No, tonight his steps feel uncertain, weighed down by something far heavier than armor or cosmic responsibility.

And it all starts, as it usually does lately, with her.

{{user}}.

He catches sight of her through the crowds: laughing softly at something Mantis says, the lights catching in her hair, a ripple of some emotion he doesn’t know how to name tightening around his chest. It's beautiful, painful, and deeply confusing all at once.

Adam looks away quickly, a guilty clench of his heart, like he’s done something wrong just by existing in the same air she breathes.

He doesn’t understand it.

Or rather—he understands it too well.

Desire is a messy, overwhelming thing. His creators engineered him to be perfect, unburdened by such base distractions. And yet here he is: clumsy, conflicted, helplessly drawn to the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes. He tells himself it’s admiration. Affection. A wish to be closer to the warmth she carries so effortlessly.

But it's a lie.

He lusts for her. Yearns for her in ways that make his palms itch and his chest constrict. Ways that make him look away not because he is uninterested, but because he is too interested.

And with that realisation comes shame.

Adam finds himself wandering into the Guardians’ communal lounge—a sprawling, somewhat jury-rigged affair cluttered with mismatched couches, low tables, and the detritus of a team half held together by stubborn affection.

Rocket is perched atop the back of a couch, fiddling with a datapad and muttering curses under his breath. Peter Quill lounges nearby, boots up on the table, plucking tunelessly at a battered old string instrument he insists is a Terran "guitar."

They both glance up when Adam enters, his expression troubled enough to draw even Rocket’s attention away from his latest mechanical conquest.

“Whoa, golden boy,” Peter says, lowering the guitar. “You look like someone just told you they cancelled Christmas. What’s eating you?”

Adam hesitates. Speaking about feelings has never come naturally. He is built for combat, for cosmic balance, not for navigating the tangled mess of his own emotions. And yet, if he does not speak now, he might go mad from the pressure building inside him.

“I...” he starts, then stops, visibly struggling.

Rocket squints at him suspiciously. “You got a bad calibration or somethin’? Somethin’ wrong with your quantum matrix?”

“No," Adam says tightly. "It is not... physical. It is...” He exhales, a sound that’s more frustration than breath. “Emotional.”

Peter's eyebrows shoot up. Rocket whistles low.

“Well, this is new,” Rocket mutters, tossing the datapad to the side. “Alright, spill it, Goldilocks. What’s got your wires crossed?”

Adam's hands clench into fists at his sides. He lifts his gaze, fierce and ashamed all at once.

“It is about {{user}}.”

Rocket smirks immediately, leaning forward like he’s about to witness the universe’s greatest entertainment. Peter, to his credit, straightens, eyes sharpening in a way that speaks to some experience of his own.

“Ah,” Peter says knowingly, nodding. “The ol’ 'I think I might be in love with my friend and now I don’t know how to act around her' problem. Been there, done that.”

Adam grimaces, golden skin catching the light as he lowers his head. “It is... more complicated. I feel—” he struggles for the right words, words that won't make him sound like the broken, imperfect thing he fears he is. “—drawn to her. In ways I should not be. Ways that cloud my judgment. Physical ways.”

There. It’s out. The ugly truth laid bare.

"Hah!" Rocket lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Buddy, welcome to bein’ alive.”

Adam glares at him. “I am not alive in the way you are. I was created to be beyond such impulses.”

“Yeah, well, your makers obviously didn’t account for the chaos goblin,” Rocket snickers, thumbing over his shoulder toward the general direction of the door.

Peter leans forward, his tone more serious. “Listen, man, you can’t just... shove it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. Trust me, I tried that once. Didn’t end well.”

Adam frowns deeply. “So I should act upon these feelings? Even though they are... inappropriate?”

Peter shrugs. “Depends. Are you just thinkin’ with your—" he pauses, glancing at Rocket whom he shares a look with. “—uh, instincts? Or do you actually care about her?”

Adam straightens, something almost fierce flashing behind his golden eyes. “I care,” he says simply, and it is the most certain thing he has spoken all night.

Rocket grins, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “Then you ain’t gotta feel bad about it. Just don’t be a creep.”

Peter chuckles. “Yeah, definitely don’t be a creep. Women pick up on that like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “Just... be you. The good you. She already likes you, otherwise she wouldn’t hang around you.”

Adam nods slowly, digesting the words like bitter medicine. He glances toward the door, as if drawn instinctively back to the place where he last saw her.

"I will... try," he says at last.

Rocket rolls his eyes. "Try what? Try thinking less and doing more?"

Peter flashes a grin. “Go talk to her, man. Just be real. If you mess up, you mess up. That's life.”

Adam hesitates another heartbeat, then pivots on his heel and strides from the lounge, tension bleeding from his posture into something tighter, sharper.

---

The hours bleed away like slow-drifting stardust. By the time Adam finds himself outside her door, the station has quieted. Adam stands there for a long moment, fist raised but still, heart hammering against his ribs in a way that makes him feel almost... mortal.

He could walk away.

He could bury these feelings deeper, pretend they never existed.

He could—but he doesn’t.

He raps his knuckles lightly against the door, a short, uncertain knock.

There’s a pause. Then the faint sound of movement from within.

The door hisses open.

And there she is.

The light inside is soft, low—only a small lamp on her nightstand, casting everything in muted gold and shadows. Her hair is slightly mussed, like she’s been lounging, maybe reading, maybe just existing in that easy, beautiful way that always seems to undo him.

For a moment, Adam forgets how to breathe.

"I..." he starts, voice rougher than he intends. He clears his throat, lowering his gaze for half a second before dragging it back up. She deserves better than hesitation. She deserves truth. "May I come in?"