Wither Wings [DISCONTINUED]

Hotdogs and Other Biochemical Weapons of Mass Destruction

Do not hate me because I am evil. Please, please, do not hate me because of what I did to Max in this, but I think it had to be done. Frankly, the Flock was getting on my nerves (except Iggy, Iggy is my spirit animal). Also, who doesn't love a sad and angsty Max? It's when all of her good jokes come out. So, as proof below, a Marvel/Maximum Ride crossover was born! I had it stuck in my head for days and finally wrote the first draft of the first chapter. Don't worry, after a few more chapters are written, I'll lengthen this one out.

I'll try to update every Friday. I can't promise that I will due to the fact that I have a life.

Foreveratrocious made that lovely cover over there. Give her lots of hugs.

--- 

The day that Maximum Ride arrived at SHIELD was a peculiar day indeed. It seemed as if all of nature was pointing at her arrival, even if the agents didn't know how to decode the signs.

"Sir," Jeffries stood up slightly from his desk, took one glance at the window and then turned towards Nick Fury's perch at the center console.

"Yes, Jeffries?" Fury asked, muttering to himself underneath his breath about air transport vehicles and schematics as he rearranged the holographic blueprints before him.

"Another hawk, sir," Jeffries was unsure what to do after making the statement, so he sat down, turned towards the window, and poked his fellow SHIELD agents to make sure they were watching what was a superb anomaly as anomalies go.

Earlier this morning, a similar hawk was flying next to the ship and landed on the landing pad of the mobile facility. The momentum of the ship itself should have sent the bird spiraling back towards earth, but the hawk held fast and was soon joined by another, one that took to swinging loops around the four engines, and this hawk was the third one, and it was beginning to distract the agents, which annoyed Fury to no end.

The bird of prey was flying perfectly parallel to the aircraft, which wasn't even seaborne at the time, but cruising at the altitude that SHIELD technicians calculated just so any birds wouldn't interfere with their systems. Yet lo and behold, here was bold proof that SHIELD was obviously very wrong.

"Jeffries, take them out," Fury commanded, not even bothering to look up from his work this time.

The agent sputtered. Take out...Take out the birds? This offended Jeffries because in addition to working for a top-secret government agency, he was also an avid bird watcher and just couldn't stand to see any bird come to harm. "But sir-"

"Jeffries..." Fury growled in a low, bass tone, spurring Jeffries into action. He stood up immediately from his seat, grabbed a long-handled broom, and proceeded to shoo the hawks away through a side window, much to the amusement of innumerous other agents.

That is, until something smashed its way through the ceiling and landed in a heap before the main console, leaving a smattering of blood on the impeccably polished boots of one Nick Fury.

That something had wings.

That something was a girl.

That something was Maximum Ride.

---

Tony Stark took a bite from a hot dog that was rife with onions, relish, the broken dreams of African children, and what Tony was 89.32% sure was more STDs than the entire state of Florida. But Steve had wanted to come here, it was one of the last remaining hotdog carts from his childhood, and Tony would do anything for Steve, especially anything for Steve's childhood.

"Mhmmm..." Steve sighed into a mouthful of the cancerous hotdog. "Isn't it just the best thing you've ever tasted?"

Tony wanted to shake his head, spit out the hotdog, and throw it to North Korea where it could follow its higher calling as a biochemical weapon of mass destruction, but Steve's eyes were so wide and so blue with that eager-to-please look that Tony managed a smile that turned out to be more grimace than grin and mumbled the phrase, "It's the bestest."

Oh god, who even says 'bestest' anymore? Tony grumbled to himself. Teenage girls?

Steve's right hand set the hot dog down in the paper carton, his weight shifting to his right leg in exasperation. "You hate it, don't you?" He said with a sigh, a fraction of a second from face palming.

"No!" Tony admonished. "Not at all!" He looked about the small park next to the hot dog cart that they were loitering near as if the frigid, wind-swept ground, weak blue sky, and autumn leaves would give him a good excuse. "I love it," he said as if trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Steve. "But I love you more. So here," Tony balanced his hotdog carton on top of Steve's other hand. "Now you can have all of my lovely hotdog. I wouldn't dare keep it to myself."

Steve rose one eyebrow in a look of skepticism at the two hotdogs and then at Tony. "I can get another hotdog, Tony. You don't need to give me yours." Steve looked as if he was trying to stifle laughter at Tony's well-meaning attempt to be diplomatic in this very undiplomatic situation.

"You can have all of the hotdogs you want. We can pile your room high with hotdogs. Tell you what, I can even buy the hotdog cart for you, if you want." Tony offered, seriously overcompensating in his haste to make Steve Rogers one very hotdog-happy man.

"Tony," Steve shot him a look, a dimpled smile creeping up on his face as he steered his goateed friend by the elbow away from the hotdog cart and dropped the two hotdogs into a trashcan on his right. "I hated it too."

Tony let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and sucked another one in, about to reply in a characteristically quippy fashion, when one Phil Coulson (known for his wonderful timing) appeared in front of the pair's path, closely followed by Clint in plainclothes, the slight bulge of armor evident underneath his button down.

"Stark, Rogers," Coulson nodded to each of them, his mirrored sunglasses hiding his expression, not that he had much beyond the range of stoic and/or adorable puppy dog. "You're needed at headquarters."

"What gives, Coulson?" Tony replied, rubbing his forehead in the anticipation of an oncoming headache. "It's our day off, which means no pesky little agents coming around to tell us to fight crime or save the world or rescue kittens from trees."

"Oh," Clint edged his way in front of Phil, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "You're going to want to see this."

---

Next time on Wither Wings.

"Yes?" Natasha called out as Banner pushed her door open with a click of the knob.

"You're needed in the medical center."

-

Sitting on the shiny steel exam table was one of the most pitiful things the team had ever seen.

-

"Have a heart, Tasha," Steve retorted. "She can't be much over 17!"