Categories > Cartoons > Class of the Titans > The Language of Love

The Language of Love

by NuuoaEclaire 11 reviews

I blinked in shock at his sincere face and defeated expression. I don't really give many boys any chance with Atlanta, but because of the language barrier I couldn't even try to get to like him. In...

Category: Class of the Titans - Rating: G - Genres: Humor, Romance - Warnings: [!] - Published: 2006-11-20 - Updated: 2006-11-21 - 1268 words - Complete

A/N: This is just a one-shot that I felt a jolt of insipiration and desire to write. I hope you like it as much as I do. And for the record I can actually speak French and for that reason decided to make it Atlanta's home language. -Nuuoa Eclaire.

The Language of Love

I opened the creaky wooden door and braced myself for the sharp cold air of the Montreal morning. I squinted my dark brown eyes from the blaze of the white ember of the sun and made sure that my red ski jacket was secure before stepping onto the slippery concrete steps. January was sure slipping its long icy finger down my back and breathing out the frosty air today.

The dearth and barren trees looked especially brittle on my small yard... but it could just be my failing vision... or my foul mood.

The jacket provided me with the warmth I needed as I crunched down on the pure snow and gripped onto the steel railing for support. I can tell you that my gloves and jacket were appreciated... or should I say 'anorak'. What's that you ask? Well it's French for ski jacket of course. That's right I am Quèbeçois to the very end from the beginning of the rich bloodline... and that man pulling in with the blue motorcycle and my daughter is defiantly not.

I felt the stubble on my chin and furrowed my bushy eyebrows in distaste. I'm a strong man, not one of prejudice... but when it comes to my baby girl I need to take drastic measure.

Hearing her laughter I looked at my twenty-five year old daughter take off her black helmet and shake out her short bold fire hair and give her beau a quick kiss on the cheek. The man became as red as a tomato. What kind of man was first compared by his soon-to-be-in-law to a tomato? One with purple hair that's who!

He put down his helmet also and laughed with her, I didn't like his laugh. He seemed handsome enough; dark blue eyes were complemented by his lighter skin and chiseled jaw... but purple hair! And with a strange looking gold contraption on his heel. My daughter's standers had certainly failed her in New Olympia.

The young vagabond's laughing cut short as he realized I was watching and he became a wide-eyed tomato again... great I have a purple tomato for a son-in-law.

I smiled at her lack of words and let the smirk of satisfaction rest silently on my strong tanned face.
"Papa!" I noticed my daughter raced down the path to our door with amazing speed. Before I could tell her to slow down and be weary of the ice she jumped into my arms and embraced me in a bear hug, surprisingly strong for one so small.

"Mon dieu!" (My God!) I laughed in our native tongue and saw out of the corner of my hawk eyes the tomato... or 'tomate', make his way over the frosted lawn.
"Oh papa! Es- tu ok? Et maman? Et mes frères! Est-ce qu'ils aime Vancouver? ... J'éspère qu'ils n'ont pas tombés en amour... si oui je veux rire." (Oh papa! Are you ok? And mom? And my brothers! Do they like Vancouver? ...I hope they haven't fallen in love...if so I want to laugh.)
"Atlanta, Atlanta, Atlanta," I smiled broadly as the annoying pest stood beside her in utter confusion at our conversation, "Tu n'as pas changée." (You haven't changed.)
"Un peu." (A bit.) She blushed a light pink as she motioned to 'tomate'.

She squirmed out of my arms and grabbed my large worn hand in her small calloused one, pulling me over to 'tomate'.
"Archie this is my dad Robert." She opened her mouth and all I heard was gibberish. Why did she have to speak in that language? I got my name and some weird English word... "Archie"? I guessed it was 'tomate'... Why couldn't my baby have gone and gotten a nice French-speaking husband... not this dim bulb, I couldn't understand a word they were saying. This is not a good thing... I can't eavesdrop on mushy conversations.

"H-hi." He looked up at me and tried not to squeak.
"Bonjour." I rumbled in my husky voice as I squished his hand, I imagined that he was indeed the ripe fruit I had named him after and he was now a pile of red goo on the ground.
"I'll leave you two to be acquainted... I need to go get my things." She left in a blur.

An awkward silence followed as he tried to match my glares or ignore them, all I could hear was Atlanta getting her bag from the compartment at the back of the monstrous bike. I was going to get that thing to the nearest junkyard as soon as I could.
"Alors tomate, je comprends que tu es vraiment rouge, n'aime pas my fille et tu veux y aller à New Olympia maintenant." (So tomato, I understand that you are very red, don't love my daughter and you want to go to New Olympia now.) I puffed out my chest in satisfaction at his reaction.
"Umm... yes?" I hooted with amusement at this, even I knew what that meant.
"Look I know we can't understand each other... but I really love your daughter, I would die for her... and I... never mind." I blinked in shock at his sincere face and defeated expression. I don't really give many boys any chance with Atlanta, but because of the language barrier I couldn't even try to get to like him. In that moment I longed so much to know what 'tomate' was saying. How would I know if he truly loved my baby girl? How would I know if I should throw him to the curb right now? Did he love her? All these thoughts pranced in my head and were interrupted.

Atlanta's gasp barely left her mouth as her legs flew from underneath her, both my and the pests gaze watched in horror as we waited for the thud. Before I barely moved a muscle "tomate" leapt into action and whisked her out of the air and gently held her in his arms. I jerked to a halt and crossed my arms as they stared at one another, her sharp breathing going back to normal.

It was time for more shock as I looked at "tomate" and deep into the pool of his eyes. The warm love and compassion shone brighter then the winter sun as the electricity coursed between them.

I felt a thin layer of ice thaw out of my heart as I brushed a hand through my mangy brown hair and sighed, trekking back into the cozy house. I didn't understand English, Japanese, Spanish, German or any other language besides my own... but there was one language that anyone one could understand from any place of earth. The language of love. More powerful and defined and translatable then anything to ever exist upon tongue. So I didn't know what he was saying... but after my forty-nine years, I think I'm going to try. And learn to tolerate Atlanta's fiancé... even if he was a purple tomato.

The End

A/N: Aww... so cute! I tried to provide translation for you there. I hope you loved it as much as I do. I love Atlanta's dad. Archie is a purple tomato... oh I sense some weird dreams tonight. I'd love to hear some feedback. -Nuuoa Eclaire
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