A/N: Just a note to my lovely followers: my brother is going to be visiting my very small house with his whole family this week, and next week I have band camp, which is a week of literally no electronics allowed on the college campus where we stay. I won't be updating much of anything soon, but this plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so it got written.

Maleficent Moors was proud to say that she was very independent, thank you very much. She couldn't stand people trying to take care of her. That was why she lived alone, save for her old thoroughbred mare, Nikita. She'd fled her family with her truck and trailer four years ago. They didn't understand. They pushed and pushed and pushed until she was about to break, and Maleficent was strong. She did not break, not for anyone, and certainly not for those bastards that thought they knew what was best for her. The doctors said she couldn't ride anymore, but they were near the point of forcing her onto a gelding's back before she managed to hook up the horse trailer, load Nikita, and flee to Ulstead. It was two hundred miles away. They would never find her there.

Ulstead was a small town, and the people there didn't take kindly to an unfamiliar face, but that was okay. After all, she lived ten miles out of town on a desolate, isolated road. She went to town once a week to buy groceries and pick up any prescriptions she had. And that was all she ever saw of people. Who needed people? Maleficent had never been a people-person. Horses were the best secret keepers, the best friends, the best companions. She didn't need a human companion as long as she had Nikita. The old gray mare had put off some weight over the years, but she was still very much healthy, and she enjoyed retirement in her pasture. Maleficent would spend hours beside her in the pasture, standing and sitting when her back complained.

So it was strange when she peered out of her window one morning while she brewed coffee to see an old, decrepit car hum down her road. She poured herself a mug and hobbled outside. The only time people ever went down her road, they were lost as all hell and needed her directions. But the gray Buick with the peeling paint pulled into the driveway across the road. She pursed her lips. That house had been vacant since she moved in. She leaned heavily on her cane and sipped the coffee. Nikita ambled over to the fence, searching for her morning peppermint treats, which Maleficent gave without glancing her way.

A young man, maybe a year or two younger than her, climbed out of the car. He looked harried. A set of keys fell to the gravel ground, and he went scrambling after them. His clothes were wrinkled and stained in places. He practically skipped to the door of the house, which looked to be near the point of caving in, and swung the door open. She absently stroked Nikita's nose while watching the man carry boxes into his house one at a time. She supposed a good neighbor might head across the road and assist him, but she wasn't a good neighbor. She was debating whether or not she should put up "No trespassing" signs when he looked up from his work and waved to her with a big grin, as though they'd known each other for years.

Maleficent finished her coffee and placed the mug on the ground beside her. She'd been caught spying, and now he had an excuse to come say those neighborly things like "Hello" and "How are you?" And now she would be required to act in kind. She cursed her own brashness while he crossed the road, clumsily tripping over the cracks in the pavement. A smile reluctantly pulled at the corners of her lips. She had never seen a person clumsier than herself, and it pleased her immensely to see someone else struggle with something as simple as walking.

He smiled broadly and pushed his hair back in a way she assumed she was supposed to find charming. "Hello!" She waited for him to continue. He seemed like the type to talk for the sake of hearing his own voice. She hated people like that. "I'm Diaval Ravenscroft." He stuck out his right hand.

She almost hissed in annoyance. A hand-shaker. She hated people who expected other people—strangers, even—to touch them. Her cane passed from her right hand to her left, and she shook his hand. "Maleficent Moors," she greeted stiffly. She made the decision to put up "No trespassing" signs right then and there.

But he didn't continue to chatter at her. Instead, he reached through the fence and stroked Nikita. "Hey, old girl," he murmured. Almost immediately, he found her sweet spot under her neck, and her muzzle began to twitch. He gave a soft laugh. Then, leaning over the fence, he whispered something into her ear. He turned back to Maleficent. She must have been staring at him blankly, because he softly explained, "Horses are the best secret keepers. I had a secret to share." He shrugged. "Sorry, I'll get out of your hair. Pleasure to meet you!" He waved to her and walked away.

Maybe the "No trespassing" signs could wait just another week or two.

Maleficent didn't work because of her disability. She lived frugally. Doctors had created a three foot list of things that she wasn't allowed to do, and she followed it to a T. No roller coasters. No bicycles. No skating. No sports. And absolutely, positively, she was never allowed to mount a horse again. But gardening wasn't included on that list. So she slaved over her garden until her back burned so badly that she collapsed in the grass and waited for the pain to subside so she could hobble back inside and take some Advil before coming back out to work on the garden some more.

Every morning, she awoke at seven on the dot. She brewed coffee. She went outside and groomed Nikita. Every other day, she exercised the mare on the lunge line. She finished with that about nine-thirty. She let the mare graze while she gardened until lunch, and she fixed a sandwich to eat in the pasture next to her horse. Often, the gray mare would lie down next to her and place her great head in her lap and demand scratches until exactly two o'clock, when Maleficent climbed to her feet again and kept gardening. By four, she washed up and fixed dinner, which she usually ate with Nikita as well. By eight, she considered her day complete, and she showered, read until she was too tired to keep her eyes open, took her pills, and fell into a tormented sleep.

But this morning, as she peered out of her window while brewing coffee, she noted that the man from across the road was talking to Nikita through the fence. The gray mare was absolutely soaking up the attention. She watched intently as the raven-locked man leaned over the fence and whispered something into her ear. A small part of her wanted to run—or, try to run—out of the house screaming, "Get off of my lawn!" and swinging her cane like it was some weapon of mass warfare. But a larger part watched him curiously. She remembered his words from the day before: "Horses are the best secret keepers." She'd thought for a very long time that she was the only one that understood that. This man was special. And that was why she watched him until he walked away from the fence, waving to the mare with a broad smile.

It became routine for Maleficent to rise at six-thirty rather than seven so she could watch the whole interaction between her dearest friend and her new neighbor. He started bringing her treats, little peppermints, baby carrots, crab apples. He eventually stopped whispering to the horse, but instead he just spoke aloud to her, holding a conversation with her. Sometimes the sound of his voice carried to the window. His voice was like an oncoming storm, thunderous but still serene. Maleficent craved those moments when she could hear his voice. She realized how long it'd been since she consistently heard another person's voice. And, though she loathed herself for admitting it, she realized how much she had missed it.

Two weeks after Diaval had introduced himself, she walked to the window and watched him while she brewed coffee. He swung over her fence agilely and walked to Nikita to greet her. Her eyes narrowed. She hadn't spoken to him since the first morning, and he hadn't bothered her. But if walking to her fence and talking to her horse wasn't trespassing, swinging over her fence to pet her mare certainly was.

He didn't hear her approaching. "Some people would have you arrested for trespassing," she pointed out coolly.

He turned to her, shock portrayed over his features, before he quickly covered it. He slicked his hair back again in that way he meant for her to find charming, and he came to the fence line between them. "And some people would have brought me coffee," he replied in a much warmer tone of voice.

She raised her eyebrows at him and handed him the extra mug. "True." He climbed up the fence and perched on the top rail. "If you break my fence, you'll do the repairs," she threatened.

He smiled cheekily down at her. "That would give me a chance to spend more time with you, wouldn't it?"

She stared back at him, expressionless. "Is that why you come here every morning and try to founder my horse?"

The smile dissipated. "No, it's not. I told you, horses are the best secret keepers." He touched the scar next to his eye thoughtfully, and she tilted her head at him. "You're not good at hiding when you're staring," he pointed out.

"I feel no need to hide where my eyes wander." She was careful to keep her voice frosty and distant. Maybe she would scare him away, and he would stop showing up in the mornings. A tiny part of her protested that. It was the small, innocent part that craved the sound of his voice projected on the wind, the part that squealed in delight when he told her things she thought only she understood. "You're not good at hiding when you show up here every morning at exactly six forty-five and tell Nikita all your secrets until seven fifteen."

"Why would I want to hide that? I've been waiting for you to come out, after all." He watched her face, carefully watching for any kind of reaction.

She was cautious not to give one, but she couldn't think of an appropriately cutting response to his blatant hitting on her. The only thing that came to mind was, "I don't like men," and she wouldn't tell him anything that was untrue, even if she really wanted him to get off of her fence because it looked like it was about to splinter. "I suppose telling my horse your secrets is supposed to help your luck in getting me to go out with you."

"I had hoped it would help." He paused, obsidian eyes scanning her face. He was the first person she'd met in four years who looked at her instead of her cane. "But I'm guessing that it won't." He swung off the fence and ungracefully tripped over a root, almost falling on her. She stepped out of the way with her jaw clenched. They regarded each other for a moment, each briefly debating how to react to the other, before he looked at his watch and proclaimed, "Shit! I'm late for work!" He waved to her quickly, his typical beaming grin adorning his face, and charged across the street, hopped in his car, and drove away.

She stared after the peeling gray Buick. He had left his coffee mug on the ground, drained of the black liquid she had presented him with. An unidentified emotion curled in her chest. She finished her coffee and headed to get her grooming kit before she could start overthinking it.

Her routine was again altered by her neighbor. She rose, fixed two mugs of coffee—one black, one with creamer and sugar—and headed to the fence line where he was usually waiting. One morning, he missed his alarm, and came running up her driveway with uncombed hair and an unbuttoned shirt, apologizing profusely for his tardiness. She silenced him with a slight smile and handed him the coffee mug.

Though she would never, ever admit it, the best mornings were the Sundays only because Diaval didn't have to work. Those mornings were the best, because they weren't pushed for time, and he could wear casual clothing. One Sunday when he was running late, he crossed the cracked road and trotted up the driveway with two plates of pancakes in tow. She tried to dissuade his adamancy that she eat breakfast, but he doused it in syrup and placed it in her lap. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he purported proudly.

"Yes, mother," she snapped.

A week later, he came with some small pastries. They stood side by side, Nikita peering at them through the fence while she waited patiently for her peppermints. Diaval got his hands confused and almost let the mare gobble up his donut before retracting it quickly and proffering the mint instead. He turned to Maleficent, who watched silently. Leaning forward, he whispered something into the gray mare's ear. Dark brown eyes blinked with wisdom; gray whiskers tickled his palm. Then, he cleared his throat and finally asked aloud, "So what's your story?"

She fought the childish urge to tell him it was none of his business, and she looked away. No one else had ever been as bold as that, to come right out and demand what had happened to her. He put in again, "Your whole story. Beginning to end. Start with the day you were born." He raised a bushy black eyebrow at her.

She raised her own eyebrow in kind. "You first, then."

He shrugged. "Alright." He rubbed his hands together. "I was born on September twelfth, year 1989. My father was a drunken bastard and my mother was a stoner, so I lived with my grandparents on a hog farm. The pigs hated me, but my grandparents were nice enough. I got my first pony on my tenth birthday, and he hated me even more than the pigs, but I liked him quite a bit. I was homeschooled by my aunt. I went to Purdue and got a bachelor's in English, and when I came home they told me to get lost, so I packed my bags and moved here." He flashed a grin at her, almost as though his whole life wasn't a sob story from some movie. "Your turn," he prompted.

Start with the day you were born, she reminded herself. She restrained the urge to flee from him. She had agreed to it, after all. She avoided thoughts of how little she actually knew about him, how few weeks she had known him. "Born December twenty-sixth, 1987. My parents owned a thoroughbred horse farm and specialized in cross country training, and I was their guinea pig from the day my feet could reach the stirrups. Nikita was my first horse." She gestured to the old mare, who had given up on receiving any more treats and returned to grazing. "They thought I was Olympic material, and they shipped me and Nikita's colt across the country to various shows. His name was Silver." She swallowed hard. "One of my competitors, we took a liking to each other. I rebelled against my father, but he still refused to let me stop competing. He was determined to make sure I got as far as I was capable of going, regardless of what I wanted to do.

"When I was nineteen, Stefan and I were competing against each other in the Olympic qualifying rounds. I left Silver with him alone for a few minutes before I went on the course. I knew as soon as I mounted that something was wrong, but I thought it was nerves and went in anyway. The first obstacle was a pattern of downhill steps. When he jumped off the first one, the needle that Stefan placed under his pad jabbed him in the back, and he panicked. He tripped and went down. My foot was hung in the stirrups. He rolled down the steps with me trapped beneath him." She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "It broke my back in two places."

Softly, almost silently, Diaval asked, "Was the horse okay?"

She shook her head. "They put him down on site. He couldn't even get up."

"I'm sorry."

Dark amusement played around the corners of her lips. "About Silver or my back?"

His eyes widened, and he sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Well, you're, like, alive, and he's not, so I want to say about him. But both, actually." He offered an awkward smile for a moment, and then looked away from her. "Did you press criminal charges?"

She shook her head. "There were no witnesses to prove he did it. I got the hell out of dodge as soon as I could walk again. Hooked up my truck and trailer in the night, loaded Nikita, and headed as far away as I could go. I never heard from anyone again."

"And you just sit here and waste all your time away on that garden?"

Her eyes flashed. "What would you have me do?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Go to an amusement park, take a hike, give riding lessons. Enjoy the brotherly shove of Ulstead." He gave a wry smile.

She sat down with her back to the fence and laid her cane down beside her. He sank down next to her. "I am the brotherly shove of Ulstead," she teased. His eyes widened a bit, disbelieving. "A cane is a weapon of warfare. Especially when people think they can push around a crippled lady." Their empty coffee mugs clinked together, but Diaval made no move to leave.

"I don't think you're crippled," he finally mumbled. She turned to look at him for elaboration, but he didn't continue. She looked back to her hands in her lap. Crippled wasn't a term she had chosen to apply to herself; it was selected by her family. Her father's words came bounding back to her when she thought the years had covered them up: You're not crippled unless you want to be, Mal, so get on that damn horse and prove that you're not going to give up on yourself! Her hand went white-knuckled on her cane, still grasping it even though she could relinquish it. Diaval softly touched the back of her hand until it loosened. His touch left her, and she missed it.

Quietly hoping to turn the conversation to something less depressing, she darkly joked, "So I suppose every normal person has a list of things they aren't allowed to do prescribed by a doctor."

Diaval shrugged. "I'm not allowed to get close to dogs and have no desire to. Does that count?"

She snorted at that. "Hardly." She tilted her head back and let the sun kiss her face and hair. His dark eyes scanned across her; she felt his gaze crawling over her. She closed her eyes, but he was still staring at her plaintively, his onyx orbs boring into her. "Is there any particular reason you're staring at me?" she muttered.

His voice frowned at her. "Because…I don't know." He shuffled beside her. "I like staring at pretty people, I guess?" He didn't miss her stiffening muscles at that. "Sorry, I'll just—I should probably go." He jumped to his feet, for once not staggering over her, and started to walk away. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She wondered if he knew that she was staring at his back while he retreated, wishing he would come back, wishing she could run after him.