For willwrite4fics. Here's your pity fic. You know what for. If anyone else enjoys, good for them.

Pure silliness...prompted by willwrite4fics requesting a drive-thru scenario.

"Goddamn it...there's another one. Fucking hell I'm hungry...c'mon, Clutch."

Clutch gripped the wheel of the humvee and wondered briefly how someone as, ahem, shapely as Covergirl could be so fixated on food. Then he remembered as a deep Alabama drawl sounded from behind his place in the driver's seat. Right. BeachHead, PT. The Sergeant Major ran the tank jockey hard; she must burn food off as fast as she ate it.

"You might as well give in, Clutch." Beach sounded faintly amused. "Barbie ain't gonna shut up 'till she gets her way...don't you smack at me, Cinderella. I'm just sayin'."

The ranger paused. "Y'know, I could eat too. Been awhile since breakfast."

Yeah. Twelve hours. During which they'd all been on presidential motorcade duty for some appearance by their Commander in Chief. The CIA had heard some rumors that the presidential parade might be a target for some kind of terrorist plot. For once, said terrorists were just run-of-the-mill pissy religious extremists instead of crazed megalomaniacs with a snake fetish. Kind of refreshing, actually.

Nothing had happened, thank God. But now, on the convoy ride back to base, Clutch was almost wishing that something had, and that he'd gotten shot. Such a merciful injury would have either meant he'd have been medevaced or dead right now, and definitely not driving a Humvee and listening to BeachHead and Covergirl flirt/fight in the backseat.

And when Covergirl and Beach weren't going at it, the ex-model and Scarlett in the far back seat were chatting it up. At least Snakes was quiet. Not that he could help it.

The worst part, though, was when Covergirl took enough time off from talking with her friend (and the two women had had to ride back in the same humvee, which meant that of course BeachHead and Snake did too) to critique Clutch's driving. And for the last fifteen minutes, she'd been pointing out every fast food joint that they passed.

He hated backseat drivers. Clutch sighed and reached for his 'comm. "Hey, Duke?"

"Yes?" The top sergeant's voice crackled back over the 'comm.

"I've got a hungry tank jockey and ranger bugging me here. We got time to hit a drive-thru?"

"Don't see why not." Duke sounded rather pleased with the idea. "I'm missing my nonexistent lunch too...pull into the next burger joint we pass."

Ten minutes later, Clutch was scribbling down orders on a scrap of paper while they waited for Duke's humvee to finish ordering and pull forwards. " you said a bacon cheeseburger, right Scarlett?"

"And fries."

"And fries."

"Extra ketchup."

"Extra ketchup." Clutch's pencil stub scratched across the paper. "You want anything, Snake?"

A pause, and then Scarlett's voice again. "He says he wants the same as me, sans ketchup...really? I'm disappointed in you, Snake. You need ketchup for fries."

Another pause. "I do not drown all my food in taste buds are not damaged."

Clutch tuned out the one-sided conversation. Drinks were barely settled before it was their turn.

Several minutes later, after paying an extremely traumatized kid at the window, Clutch extracted his own food from the bag and shoved the rest towards the back. "Here. I am not sorting this out."

The next few minutes were mercifully quiet save for paper-rustling and drink-slurping. Clutch chewed happily on his own cheeseburger; it'd been awhile since he'd gotten Wendy's.

The silence was broken by a threatening growl. "Cinderella! Touch mah fries again, girlie, an' your hand comes off."

"So I'll get Lifeline to reattach it." Covergirl didn't sound intimidated. Clutch privately gave her points for both balls and insanity. Sure, she could get by with things around the ranger that no one else could, but still...stealing BeachHead's food was a death that Clutch was sure would be ruled as a suicide. A messy suicide.

The ex-model slurped at her soda and continued. "Besides, you got the giant holyfuck order; you won't miss three or four little ones."

"Shoulda gotten more fer yerself, then. I ain't sharin', Cinderella."

"Prick. Snake let Scarlett swipe a few of his."

Clutch glanced in the rearview mirror. Beach was glaring at Covergirl, who was chewing contentedly. Scarlett was peeling bits of cheese off of the paper her sandwich had come in. He couldn't see what Snake was doing; the commando was sitting backwards, cross-legged on his seat, facing away from all of them to eat.

He turned his attention back to the road. He glared at the speedometer, scowled, and reached for the 'comm again. "Driving slowly enough, Duke? We're getting passed by little old ladies with curlers in their hair."

"Well, the little old ladies are speeding, then." Duke sounded mildly irritated. "Just take it easy, mister road rage. We'll get there."

Yeah. Maybe next century. Clutch was just about to say as much when a nondescript white car suddenly started flashing the berries and cherries and pulled over a ford pickup that had just passed them. Fuck. Of all the lousy timing...

Sure enough, Duke's voice sounded very smug when the first shirt spoke over the communicator. "Good thing we weren't speeding, hmm?"

Clutch grumbled.

Behind him, Scarlett suddenly spoke up. "Give me that, Snake. You always leave the good bits." There was a rustling as paper changed hands. "See? There's even a bit of bacon in this blob."

"Are you eating paper?" Covergirl sounded incredulous.

"No...the cheese off the paper." Scarlett said patiently. "Don't tell me you leave the cheese paper too. Bad enough Snake Eyes does."

"You leave the cheese? Gimme that wrapper, Courtney." Beach slurped happily. "Crazy woman...your momma never teach you to clean your plate?"

There was a snort of what sounded like panting laughter from the far back seat.

"Oh, shut it. It is not a southern thing." Scarlett sounded amused, though. "Smartass know, Beach, I doubt your mother meant 'eat the plate too'. You going to stop, or are you just going to eat the whole wrapper? Do you want mine too? There's still grease on them."

"Shuddup, Red, or you'll be hurtin' after PT tomorrow. And stop sniggering, Snakes, or so will you. I don't even care how many times I have to run you over the course; I'll do it until you collapse."

Clutch sighed. Of course he got the crazy people in his vehicle. Duke got Low light, Stalker, and Spirit. They'd be quiet. He got the loud, crazy ones. And he couldn't even properly appreciate the scenery provided by Covergirl and Scarlett, because he was driving, and there was that whole eyes on the road thing.

Well, and because their boyfriends were sitting right next to them. Of course, Snake tended to be pretty easygoing and generally let a few covert glances at his girlfriend slide. Unfortunately, said girlfriend didn't. Which, come to think of it, might be why Snake was so chill about it...he certainly didn't have anything to worry about. Lucky bastard.

Yeah. Forget the ninja boyfriend. Red would unman the poor sop that couldn't manage to drag his eyes above breast level. And God help the man who decided to 'accidentally' brush up against her. She'd take their hands off. At the elbow.

Clutch had been hit with enough kicks to know better than to hit on Scarlett. Within kicking range, anyways. Unfortunately, she was pretty fast, too...she could chase you down really quickly. Clutch rubbed a bruise on his thigh absently. Yeah. No hitting on Scarlett. Within her earshot.

Covergirl, on the other hand...BeachHead would just straight-up rip his arms off if he caught Clutch eyeing the tank jockey. And then she'd kick him in whatever BeachHead left of his balls. Several times. And considering what Covergirl looked like...

Okay. It was probably a good thing that he was driving. He sighed. Just another few hours...

"Dammit...Clutch, there's enough room between us and Duke for a damn semi. It's called a gas pedal. Use it."

"Shut up, Covergirl." He glowered at her reflection in the rearview mirror. "Duke bitches if I tailgate him."

Or he could just find a cliff...huh. That didn't sound like a bad idea.