Title: Alphabet Soup for Passover
Rating: T
Spoilers: none
Summary: Short ficlets from A to Z as House and Wilson visit Wilson's family for Passover. HW established relationship. Plotless comedy planned but anything could happen.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, no pretense to ownership, don't sue please.

A is for Aardvark

House shifted his leg for the fifteenth time since Trenton. Wilson knew because he'd been counting.

"Jersey is a boring state," House commented. Again.

Wilson ignored him. It was a beautiful day, traffic was flowing well on I-295, and House's inability to settle into one of the many journals and magazines he'd brought for the three day trip to Wilson's parents' house wasn't going to interfere with his driving. Just because House's crotch rocket couldn't carry both of them and their luggage to D.C…. Wilson took a deep, relaxing breath, and wiggled into a position that was kinder to his lower back.

"Ooo, Nebraska," House said. "Don't see that often." He held up his hands to count off the state license plates he'd seen. "So that's Jersey, New York, Massachusetts, D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, and Nebraska." He turned to Wilson, his expression obscured by a pair of sunglasses. "Nebraska before Vermont and Rhode Island. Hey, are you going to pass Nebraska or let everyone else pass us because Nebraska's slow?"

Wilson gripped the steering wheel like a strangler with a thick-necked victim. He was already nervous about how his parents would treat him this time, never mind the stage fright he always got during a Seder, and though he'd told House over and over how anxious this visit made him, House insisted on adding to the tension. He ground his hands against the steering wheel, feeling the head of each metacarpus challenge the hard leather.

"Seriously. This guy's doing sixty, tops."

Wilson flipped the turn signal on, but House refused to shut up as more cars passed them.

"I mean, I know you don't really want to go, but don't make me suffer because of it."

Wilson caught him pressing his right palm against his blue jeans much harder than he should given the Vicodin he'd popped less than an hour ago. He strangled the steering wheel again.

"Aww, come on," House whined. "Stuck behind a grain-producing state that no one can find on a map—come on."

Wilson wanted to snap at him so badly, but he knew House was baiting him into snapping. He didn't know why—probably because House was a jerk—but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. So instead, he reached into his memory for a road trip game better than House's state license plate hunt.

"I'm going to a picnic," Wilson began, "and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award."

A smile spread over House's face. "Composers? All right. I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award and Beethoven's tinnitus."

"I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award, Beethoven's tinnitus, and Chopin's tubercular left lung."

"I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award, Beethoven's tinnitus, Chopin's tubercular left lung, and Dvořák's chamber pot."

Wilson began to smile, too. After Elvis's blue suede shoes, Franz Schubert's last lieder, Giacamo Puccini's pen, Haydn's Sturm und Drang period, and Igor Stravinsky's French citizenship, they finally passed Nebraska.

Wilson's memory failed him at Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky's closet. House teased him for tripping over the word "closet" in such a way that Wilson knew he'd just given House great material for the trip. He groaned and made his best hangdog face, but House ignored him.

After a while, House settled back into restlessness.

"Ooo, there's Vermont."

…

"Should I wear a skull cap, or would I get Gentile dirt all over it?"

"It would cover your bald spot."

"In that case, you should wear a girdle."

Wilson ground the steering wheel.

…

"North Carolina. Wanna bet on the next one?"

"Bet what?"

"Next tank of gas."

"Only if I get to pick first."

"Cheater. Go ahead."

"Virginia."

"No way. Florida."

…

"Florida!"

Wilson's metacarpals ached but he forced them into the leather anyway.

…

Traffic kept them in the left lane next to a minivan for nearly five minutes. House became suspiciously silent.

When Wilson finally glanced over at him, House had his nose against the glass and his thumbs in his ears, waving his fingers like antlers at two laughing kids in the minivan's backseat.

And when the minivan slowed slightly and a large man's red face came into view and Wilson noticed him strangling his own steering wheel, Wilson sighed heavily.

"We should have flown," he grumbled.

"With my fear of airborne infection?" House retorted.

Wilson sniffed derisively.

…

"Ohio. That was unexpected."

…

"West Virginia. Wow. You suck."

…

"Kentucky! Still no Virginia, loser."

…

"Maybe I will wear a skull cap."

…

House snickered.

"Tchaikovsky's closet."

Wilson hit the steering wheel, his hands too sore to squeeze it any longer.

"All right," he said. "I'm going on a picnic and I'm taking an aardvark."