It actually takes longer than he expected for the atmosphere to start to turn.
The first day is quiet — despite each getting a decent sleep, they are both still exhausted, physically and emotionally, wrung out both from their journey and the events leading up to it. She curls up with a book; spends most of the day reading and napping. He spends some time checking on the house, making sure everything is running as it should and that they have everything they might need — particularly in the weapons store. Then, he lets himself relax a little — he has one last newspaper crossword he can do.
They come to an agreement that he will do most of the cooking; she is happy to do dishes, and spend time in the garden, tending to their small stock of plants. They both pass a quiet night as well — he actually sleeps for a few hours, secure in the knowledge that, for once, they are both utterly safe.
By the next afternoon, she starts to get restless. Honestly, after two years in the underground labyrinth of the Post Office, he'd thought, hoped, that she'd be more used to being closed in. But of course, even then, she could go out whenever she wanted, more or less. It's easy to chalk it up to circumstance — she's had a lot going on, after all — the sudden standstill is bound to be as much a shock to the system as it is a relief.
He tries to set a tone of relative ease, reading or thinking up some of his better stories to tell her, suggests a video, or cards. For the time being, it seems that she would rather pace.
And he waits for it to start.
Mid-afternoon, she sits down across from him in the great room.
"I can't bottle it up anymore, Red," she blurts. "I'm going crazy in here, in my mind. Talk to me — help me. Who were my parents, really? What was going on that night? Why were you there? What…"
"Lizzie," he interrupts, regret heavy in his voice, in the lines on his face. "I can't tell you these things, it's not…"
"You mean you won't!" she battles back. "Why? I'm a criminal now — we're hiding from the law together, for God's sake! What reason could you possibly have for keeping all these secrets?"
"Oh, Lizzie," he says, and sits up straighter to look her directly in the eye. "Why don't you tell me about Tom Connolly? Why did you do it, Lizzie? You didn't just shoot an unarmed man, your threw your entire life away. So, what happened?"
She looks down at her hands, back up to his face, but she can't meet his eyes. "I don't want to talk about that," she mutters.
"Well, then, sweetheart, it looks like we're at an impasse," he drawls, and lifts his book ostentatiously.
She lets out a huff of air, then goes back to pacing, then wandering from room to room, seething with dissatisfaction.
For the next few days, she campaigns against him, waiting until she thinks his guard is down before hurling questions at him like arrows.
"Who were my parents?"
"How did you meet Sam?"
"How did the fire start?"
"Who created the Fulcrum?"
Always, always, he avoids, sidesteps (he's not ready, she's not ready), returning question for question.
"Why did you shoot Connolly?"
"What happened with Cooper?"
"Why (why, Lizzie, why) did you turn to Tom Keen for help?"
"Why did you come to me, in the end?"
She doesn't want to answer his questions any more than he does hers, and so they are left in a tense, angry détente, neither willing to be the first to give. He watches her struggle with herself — her reaction to his silence has always been rage; hateful words and disdain. She doesn't want to fight with him now, though, so she fights to temper her reactions instead, to keep things, if not friendly, then at least peaceable. And he's thankful, because he couldn't stand arguing day in and out — the ambush of questions is draining enough.
Then, on the fourth day, she changes tactics. He can almost see her brain working, when she thinks he's not paying attention.
She's spent some of her time… "getting to know him," she calls it; "grubbing through his things," he calls it. He lets it go, though — since he's purchased everything she currently owns, right down to her underwear, he figures it would be hypocritical to quibble about her going through his books and music.
Then, in between question periods, she starts to tease him, bait him — he thinks she is trying to disarm him.
"I admire your dress sense, Red, but who are you dressing for, down here? Don't you have any t-shirts? Have you ever," with a mischievous grin, "Even owned a pair of sweatpants?"
"Classic literature is all well and good, Red, but don't you ever just want a good potboiler?"
"Judy Garland and Katherine Hepburn? Did you get your taste in film from your grandma?"
"Don't you have any music composed after 1960? You' re fifty-five, Red, not eighty!"
And so it goes, until he thinks he would cheerfully strangle her, if poking at him didn't seem to give her a measure of happiness.
Nonetheless, he thinks wryly, trapped together for the foreseeable future, this is going to get old fast.