Ace Attorney / Gyakuten Saiban, its characters and settings, are property of Capcom, and are being used here without permission.  This fic is rated PG and contains spoilers for JFA and GS3.

 

 

Sustenance
Part 2 - Ron DeLite

 

 

 

Come on come on come on--yes!

 

The light turned green, and immediately Desireé spurred her motorcycle on through the intersection.  It took only a few moments for her to climb back to top speed as she plowed down the city streets in a blur of red chrome.  She laughed out loud as the wind whipped past her helmet and ruffled the fur collar against her neck.  It was a beautiful night for a ride.

 

She was considering turning off onto the highway when she suddenly noticed another bike in the lane next to hers: a beauty of a hog with leather seats and hand-painted detailing on the sides.  She couldn't see the owner's face beneath his sleek helmet, but he was dressed in a white and red riding suit Desireé had nothing but appreciation for.

 

A real rider, huh?  Grinning, Desireé sped up.  In response to her subtle challenge the second bike quickly met and overtook her, only to slow back to her pace a few car lengths ahead.  Desireé's heart beat a little faster as she responded in kind.

 

If it's a race he wants…

 

*****

 

This isn't what I wanted….

 

As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him Ron let out a long, shuddering sigh.   I'm so stupid, he chastised himself yet again as he peeled his fingers carefully away from the long, shallow gash across his left bicep.  It was still bleeding sluggishly, spreading a barely visible stain across the sleeve of his black turtleneck.  With a quiet hiss he covered it again.

 

What were you thinking, stupid DeLite?  His face screwed up in childish shame as he moved to the sink.  Climbing all over the roofs like an idiot.  You're not a hero.  He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth as he ripped his sleeve away from the jagged wound.  You couldn't even manage espionage.  What makes you think you could handle something so much bigger?

 

The sleeve came free with a sudden tear, splattering blood across the sink and mirror.  Ron winced at the mess.  Can I clean all this up before Desireé gets home…?  Oh, if she knew what an idiot I am….  He bit his lip as he groped about for the first aid kit he thought they had, spreading more red fingerprints across the cabinets and tile. 

 

It was only supposed to be practice.  Just a little exercise, up and down the fire escape, maybe jumping a roof or two….  Working up his nerve to take his "hobby" to the next step.  He had been so confident starting out.  Ron had never been very strong, but he was light, and fast, and flexible--even kiddy training was still training, and he was surprised by how easily he was able to move between his own apartment and the roof.

 

It was on the way down that he screwed up.  Somehow it came into his head that he could jump from the fire escape against his building to the next.  He almost made it, too.  It wasn't the distance, but his own poor footing that sent him tumbling into the dumpster.

 

"Darn it!"  Unable to find the first aid kit, Ron slammed the cupboard shut and settled instead on running the sink.  It wasn't big enough for him to fit his arm under the faucet.  Frustrated and at a loss, he did his best to cup the water in his good hand, splashing it over the wound.  He had to stop before long, though; it stung so badly that his hands shook, spilling the water before it could do any good. 

 

"So stupid," Ron mumbled dejectedly.  He scrubbed at his eyes as they began to sting, too.  By now his hair was slipping free of its pins, and the thick loops batted him in the face, turning his frustration to annoyance.  "Stupid DeLite!"

 

Desireé's laughter floated to him from the other side of the door.  He thought he was imagining her berating him until a man's voice joined it.  Ron jerked around, wincing as his bruised ribs complained.  Desireé was moving through the apartment.  He followed the sound of her footsteps, trying to gauge her direction.  She was heading for the kitchen.

 

What do I do?  Ron blinked helplessly at the mess he'd made--the mess he was.  There wasn't any time now to hide anything.  And more importantly, who was the man in his home?  He didn't recognize the second voice at all….

 

Ron had no time left to ponder--the knob was already turning.  He could only brace himself against the towel rack and stare.

 

The door opened, revealing a young man no more than Ron's age.  The stranger--a brunette with long, stupid-looking bangs and a red racing jacket--stopped to stare in shock.  Ron stood transfixed by his incredulous expression.

 

A moment composed of hours of humiliation passed before the stranger turned his head.  "Um, Desireé?  There's a strange woman in your bathroom."

 

"What?"  Desireé's laughter was accompanied by the familiar trod of her boots as she approached.  There was nowhere to escape to.  "What are you--"

 

Ron's heart was beating in his throat by the time Desireé appeared in the open doorway.  He opened his mouth to make some excuse or explanation, but the look of surprise that crossed her face silenced him.  As ridiculous as he felt for it, he couldn't muster any response at all.

 

"Oh my god, Ronnie!"  Desireé pushed her guest out of the way and hurried into the bathroom.  "What in the world happened to you?  You're bleeding!"

 

Her fingertips brushed Ron's arm, and the sudden return of pain caused him to jump, waking him from his stupor.  "I…"  Their eyes met, filling him with panic.  "I--I was mugged!" he blurted out.

 

"Mugged!?"  Desireé gave a little shudder of fury.  "Ooh!  This city is horrible!  I'm so sorry, Ron."  She guided him to sit on the toilet.  "Just sit tight--I'll take care of you."  She took a step back and turned to the stranger, who was still standing at the door, looking baffled.  "I'm sorry, Matt.  The coffee maker's in the kitchen--can you make us a pot while I take care of this?"

 

"This?"  Ron lowered his head in embarrassment.  "I'm--I'm okay," he stuttered.  "I can--"

 

"Don't be silly," Desireé was quick to scold him.  "I'll be right back with the first aid kit."  She touched "Matt's" shoulder on her way out.  "You don't mind, do you?"

 

"'Course not."

 

"Thanks--I'll be right back, Ronnie!"  Desireé hurried off to the bedroom, which was connect to the other bathroom--the one that actually had the first aid kit.

 

Ron slumped a little once she was gone.  Mugged.  Now you're not just an idiot, but a liar.  He was fighting the temptation to grab for his arm again when he realized "Matt" was still standing at the door.  He glanced up warily.

 

Matt was watching him, his expression…still confused, but also oddly smug.  "So."  The right side of his face was mostly covered with his long bangs, but when he tipped his head just slightly, Ron could see a faint glimpse of his right eye.  "You and Desireé…know each other?"

 

Ron tensed defensively, though it only made him grimace--he was more bruised than he originally thought.  "She's my wife."

 

Matt's eyebrow quirked.  Ron hated that expression every time he was fixed with it.  

 

"Wow."

 

Ron bristled, but by then Desireé's footsteps were returning, and Matt chuckled to himself as he turned to leave.  He had no choice but to bite back his indignation.  Everyone is always shocked, he reminded himself.  You were shocked, too, when she accepted….

 

Desireé stepped back into the bathroom.  She had shed her riding jacket, dressed now in the low cut, black tank top that she often wore beneath it.  Usually Ron loved seeing her in it, but now he was too occupied to appreciate it, thinking that maybe Matt had seen it, too. 

 

"Here."  Desireé plucked the rest of the bobby pins out of Ron's hair, tying it back with one of her scrunchies instead.  Her long fingers tending to him settled some of Ron's remaining ill ease, but her questions brought it right back again.  "Tell me what happened," she asked as she pulled a wide bandage out of the first aid kit she'd retrieved.

 

Ron worried his bottom lip between his teeth a moment.  "I…."  He considered the truth, but as usual, something held him back.  It wasn't the truth that she really wanted to hear.  "I went for a walk," he explained, his voice pitching tightly.  "And…and three men, they jumped me!  But I didn't have any money with me, so they…they threw me in a dumpster…"

 

He ended with a mumble most people wouldn't have been able to hear, but Desireé was used to listening closely.  "How awful," she murmured as she applied some antibiotic ointment and carefully bandaged the long scrape.  "Did you call the police?"

 

"The…police…?"  Ron cringed.  "Well, no.  I didn't really…see the guys that well, I don't think it'll help…."

 

Desireé snorted--he knew that she wasn't very fond of the police herself, as they had never caught the men who had attacked her last year, either.  "You're probably right.  But at least let me take you to the hospital.  You should get a tetanus shot or something."

 

"I'm caught up," Ron quickly assured.  "Because of work.  I don't want to go to the hospital."

 

"But Sweetie, someone should look at you.  What if you get infected or something?"

 

She touched his cheek, and it wasn't until he flinched that he even remembered he was bruised there.  He had been so concerned about what Desireé might think of him and his foolish antics that he'd forgotten everything but his throbbing arm.  With that fear past, it was easier to notice that his head was aching, and his ribs were sore, and…he smelled.

 

Ron swallowed hard.  "I'm sorry."

 

"Hm?"  Desireé leaned back and smiled tiredly.  "All right--I won't make you go to a doctor.  But you're calling in sick tomorrow, and I'm keeping my eye on you.  Got that, Mister?"

 

Relieved, Ron managed to smile back.  "Okay."

 

"Good."  She kissed him softly and reached for his turtleneck, helping him pull it over his head.  "Now how about you get cleaned up, and come meet our guest.  He's a great rider--you'll like him."

 

Ron frowned, and started to protest, but by then Desireé was already heading to the door.  He squirmed.  "O-Okay!"

 

"I'll leave your favorite sweater out for you," Desireé added as she slipped out.

 

She closed the door behind her.

 

Ron stared after her; as soon as she was gone every part of him began to ache anew.  But he knew she loved playing hostess, and he didn't want to disappoint her by ignoring their company.  Whatever he's doing here anyway.  Ron took some aspirin and began to clean up himself and the bathroom, pouting silently all the while.

 

The sweater Desireé left out for him was an oversized knit with green stripes.  It was his favorite, but he normally wouldn't have picked it with someone else over, as it made him look even scrawnier than usual.  He put it on anyway, along with fresh jeans.  Desireé's pink scrunchie probably didn't help the image either, but he kept that, too. 

 

He can't stay that long, Ron reasoned as he shuffled toward the kitchen.  It's already pretty late--he'll have to leave soon.

 

"I know what you're thinking," Desireé's voice echoed back to him as he approached.  He could hear her moving about the kitchen, pulling glasses out of the cupboards.  "'How does a girl like Desireé end up with Ron DeLite?'"

 

Ron paused.  He hated that question almost as much as the look Matt had given him earlier.  He knew the answer so well by now he could have dictated it by heart, right down to the tone she used in relating it.

 

"Actually," Matt carried on, "I was thinking, wow, it's a wonder you're married at all.  From the way you ride, I mean.  Must be hard to keep a woman like you tied down."

 

"Tied down?  Don't be silly."  Their kitchen wall had a small section cut out of it, affording a view of the small living room and entranceway, and from Ron's position he could see the pair as they conversed.  Matt was seated at the kitchen table, chin rested in his palm as he watched Desireé pour the coffee into mugs.  "I still ride," she said as she handed one to her guest.  "I beat you, didn't I?"

 

"You sure did."  Matt grinned, and as he took a sip he glanced to the side.  Ron flinched when he was spotted.  But instead of calling attention to him, Matt's grin thinned slightly, his one visible eye…growing sharp, as if coming into focus.  "So."  He watched Ron as he addressed his wife, who had turned her back to them both.  "How does a girl like Desireé end up with a dude like Ron DeLite?"

 

Ron didn't like the sudden feeling of being teased, but he decided to let Desireé give her answer before making himself known to her.  She liked telling that story--she did it all the time.  "Well you see, I was coming home from work--"

 

"You…want to know the truth?" Desireé asked as she dug into the fridge.

 

The…truth?  Ron hadn't been expecting that.  He stepped a little closer, ignoring Matt now in favor of casting Desireé a curious look.  She'd answered that question the same way a dozen times; he hadn't been aware there was some other way of responding.  Her sudden change of wording made him wonder, if…there was some "truth" he hadn't heard before.

 

Matt's voice was careless.  "Sure."

 

"Well," Desireé began conspiratorially, "the truth is…."

 

She turned away from the refrigerator with a carton of cream, and before she could continue her story she spotted Ron watching her from the living room.  She jumped, for a moment her face betraying a flash of what might have been guilt.  "Oh, Ronnie!  There you are."  With a blush and escaping eyes she turned back to the table.  "Come sit with us."

 

Ron followed, and allowed Desireé to herd him into a chair opposite their guest.  "Here--plenty of cream, just how you like it," she offered, pouring it into his mug.

 

Matt took his black.  "You were saying?" he prompted innocently.

 

"Oh!   Yes."  Desireé chuckled to herself and took a seat.  "Well you see, I was coming home from work one night…"

 

Ron's brow furrowed as he let the rest of Desireé's story slip to the back of his mind.  He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else, hidden beneath her words.  What was she going to tell him before she realized I was listening…?

 

"…And they ran right off!  He saved my life."  Desireé touched Ron's knee, bringing his attention back.  "We saw each other a few times after that, and before we knew it, we were together."

 

"Wow."  That same, slightly incredulous tone.  "Sounds like you're a real hero, dude."

 

A hero?  Yeah, right….  Ron sipped his coffee awkwardly.  "I guess."  His gaze danced back and forth between the pair.  "I'm sorry.  You are…?"

 

"Oh!  I'm sorry."  Desireé laughed to herself and leaned back so they could see each other across her.  "I just rattled on without introducing you!  Ron, this is Matt Engarde.  He's a biker--and an actor!  Isn't that exciting?  We met on the road."

 

"I see."  Ron smiled, for Desireé's sake.  "Nice to meet you."

 

Matt waved.  "Ditto."

 

"Do you remember those old squirt gun commercials when we were kids?" Desireé continued, her spirits as high as ever.  "Those ones that you pumped--and there was the pool party?"  She gave Matt's shoulder a shake.  "That was him!  That was Matt!  Isn't that just wild?"

 

"Yeah, it's…."  Ron ducked his head a little as they laughed.  "That's great…."

 

"It's no biggie," Matt insisted.  "Just a couple commercials.  I'm more impressed by you, Desireé."  He brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder.  "The way you handled that bike.  It was totally rad."

 

Ron tensed again, fingers tightening around his mug.  This wouldn't be the first stranger Desireé invited home.  She was always willing to make a new friend, and sometimes it seemed that every man in the city was just as eager to meet her.  She was popular--there was nothing wrong with that.  He couldn't complain when it was that open nature of hers that had brought the two of them together.

 

But when Matt glanced his way something in his stare struck him again.  He was teasing him.  I don't like him.  Ron set his mug down, trying to appear confident and unshaken by whatever game this had suddenly become.  I don't want him to be here.  I don't trust him.

 

"Well, I get plenty of practice," Desireé was saying.  "I just wish Ron would come out with me more--he's such a scaredy-cat when it comes to the bike."

 

"I--"  Ron shifted in his chair.  "I'm not scared," he protested.

 

"Then why don't you ride with me?" Desireé insisted, reclining easily in her chair.  The slight arch of her back made her figure even more stunning in her tight black top, which both men clearly noticed.  "I got you a helmet and everything."

 

"I don't blame him," Matt interrupted jovially.  "He's so skinny, he might blow right off the back!"

 

Desireé laughed--Ron could have brushed aside the childish taunt if not for that.  He pushed suddenly out of his chair, with such force that it rocked and almost fell over.  "I'm--I'm not feeling well!"

 

Matt and Desireé blinked up at him, startled by the abrupt declaration.  "Ron…?" his wife asked as she tried to reign in her humor.

 

"I'm…."  Ron's shoulders hitched, his lips pursed with a swell of emotion.  But a moment later his temper left him, and he grew slack once more.  "I'm not feeling well," he repeated.  "I think I should lie down….  I'm pretty tired…."

 

"Oh…of course, Sweetie." 

 

Desireé stood, but instead of letting her touch him Ron stepped back, out of range.  "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Engarde," he mumbled as he retreated from the kitchen.

 

"You, too, dude…"

 

Ron returned to the bathroom, closing the door quickly behind him--locking it this time in a childish display of retaliation.  Once he was alone again, finally out from under the dull scrutiny of that irritating stranger, he felt more humiliated than ever.  You're just jealous, he reasoned to himself as he leaned his back against the door.  And you stormed out of there like a baby.  You were just imagining things--there's nothing wrong with Matt.  It's just you.

 

Ron sighed.  When he sagged his sweater caught against the door, making it bunch around his neck.  It's just you, being stupid again.  You're married now.  She loves you.  It…doesn't matter why.  He tugged Desireé's scrunchie out so that his hair fell in thick waves over his shoulders.  I don't care if there's more to that story she always tells….

 

He heard Desireé's footsteps coming--socks instead of boots this time--so he didn't jump when she knocked on the door.  "Ronnie?"  She sounded concerned, and it actually made him feel a little better.  "Are you all right in there?"

 

If it had been foolish to hide in the first place, it would have been even more ridiculous to remain there.  With a quiet sigh Ron turned and opened the door.  He scuffed his toe against the floor.  "Yeah…."

 

Desireé took his hand, tugging him out into the living room once more.  "Okay."  She kissed his cheek.  "Come on--I'm putting you to bed."

 

"But--"  Ron glanced around, but didn't see any sign of their guest.  "Where did--"

 

"Matt went home," Desireé explained.  She gave him another tug, and Ron gave no protest as she turned out the lights on the way to the bedroom.  "You should have said something earlier.  I would have asked him to leave."

 

"I know."  Desireé had always been that considerate.  "But…he was a guest…."  More than that, it would have been like admitting defeat, and Ron liked the idea of that even less.

 

"Oh Ronnie."  Desireé sighed, and once they were in the bedroom she nudged him toward the bed.  "Lie down, silly.  I'm gonna get changed, and then we can watch some TV before bed, okay?" 

 

"Okay…"  Ron's hand lingered in hers as she moved away, so that it bounced lightly against his hip when they finally let go.  He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he stretched out in bed and clicked the television remote.  The late evening news was nowhere near as interesting as watching Desireé slip out of her tank top.

 

It doesn't matter, he told himself again, trying not to appear too attentive as Desireé wriggled out of her riding pants and pulled an old blue tee-shirt over her head.  She loves me.  That's…more than I deserve already.

 

She disappeared into the bathroom, finishing off her daily routine.  Ron followed her progress with his ears.  By the time she emerged he was beginning to feel restless.  As soon as she hopped onto the bed next to him he twisted, dragging her close for a sudden kiss.

 

"Ronnie--"  Desireé's voice was smothered by a happy murmur as she kissed him back.  Her lips were warm and tasted like peppermint toothpaste, and Ron relaxed gratefully into them.  For a few brief moments everything that had happened that day was eclipsed by the smooth curve of her bare waist beneath his fingers.

 

She tugged at his sweater, and Ron was only too glad to obey; his hair swatted at them both as he rolled easily over her.  But as he put a hand down to brace himself his arm complained with a sharp throb, reminding him of the injury suffered earlier.  A soft noise of pain broke their kiss, and he quickly shifted his weight to his right instead.

 

It took Desireé a moment to realize what had happened, but when she did she resumed her fussing.  "Oh Ronnie, I'm sorry--are you all right?"  She pushed him onto his back unchallenged.  "My poor Ronnie.  You're going to tear it open again."

 

Ron let his breath out in a deep sigh of disappointment.  "Sorry," he mumbled.  It would have made everything so much better, if they could just….

 

"It's not your fault, Sweetie."  She pressed a hand to his chest as she leaned in for another kiss, unintentionally pressuring one of his other bruises.  He wasn't able to hold back a sharp wince, which halted her before she could reach his lips.  With a quiet sigh of her own Desireé nestled instead at his side and pressed her kiss to his clothed shoulder.

 

"Just get some rest," she said.  "You'll probably be sore tomorrow."  Her hand moved tentatively to his, as if afraid of hurting him again.

 

Ron gripped it tightly.  "No, I'll be fine," he assured.  "It's not…that bad."

 

Desireé clicked her tongue at him.  "Little liar," she scolded, making him flinch.  "I'm your wife, now.  You don't have to lie to me."

 

Ron's stomach churned.  Despite all his self-assurances, when he glanced down and found her wide brown eyes on him, he couldn't stop himself.  "Neither do you."

 

Desireé leaned back slightly, her brow furrowing at what had unintentionally--or perhaps intentionally--sounded like an accusation.  When she tipped her chin down, breaking their joined gaze, it made Ron's fingertips chill to numbness. "Of course."

 

Desireé….  Ron glanced away as well, keeping his hand tight around hers even though her fingers had gone limp.  Guilt turned his stomach to cold mud.

 

Stupid.  He squeezed his eyes shut.  Stupid DeLite.