#i also love instances where they tried but failed a bit. very endearing as well. augh. feeling all warm and fuzzy

[robinsnest2111]

multi lingual kings

the door to a room no one is supposed to enter says

"KEEP YE OUT"

"N'ENTRE PAS"

and

"BETRETEN VERBOTEN"

on it

[sleepingdeath-light]

reading the crossover headcanons for TOH was amazing!

i wanted to request a crossover with TOH and Steven Universe if possible! (also with Hunter x Reader) You can decide between reader being half-gem, like Steven, or fully gem! If you can't or don't want to, that's okay! Aand I really love your headcanons! You make them long and detailed! It's truly amazing.

Crossover Headcanons | SU x TOH [Hunter x Gem//Hybrid!Reader]

thank you for requesting, anon

These are written with a gender neutral reader in mind and have a general chronology from the reader’s last moments in little homeworld until they end up with Hunter, so apologies if this gets long!

Note : this is the first time I’ve written for the SU canon, so I’m not as experienced with that universe. Also my portrayal of these characters is still pretty rocky, so I may rework this in the future.

The first few months you spent in Little Homeworld had felt almost like a dream come to life; freedom to be yourself and explore a world full of organic life without the restrictions placed on you by the diamonds? It was fantastic! However, that feeling of unrestricted feeling soon started to grow stale as you realise that the growth of the small colony had already started to stagnate—and that not all humans were welcoming of intergalactic immigrants like your kind.

So to ease your mind you opted to take the warp to the next star system over—craving that same sense of excitement that you had during the gem war

Simply standing on the warp again was enough to get your blood pumping with a reignited vigour for exploration

A feeling so palpable that you failed to notice the array of spindly cracks that spanned the surface of the device, and the way that a sickly dull light pulsated beneath your feet (the sight accompanied by a warning hum far too low for you to notice)

Though you couldn’t ignore the way the warp didn’t immediately go off like usual, nor could you neglect the searing pain that spread through your veins and constricted your throat; leaving you in so much pain that you couldn’t even move or scream before your vision was engulfed in a glitching, sickeningly bright light

It must have been several hours later when you woke up, based on how high the sun was in the sky… was the sky that red before?

Your head was pounding and although your vision was blurry, yet you couldn’t ignore how different your surroundings were from the earth you were used to

The sky was a faint red and the ground beneath your feet was dusted with deep maroon grass—it was soft and warm under your fingertips but with how much organic matter there was you knew that this wasn’t a colony

Hell, you didn’t even arrive on a warp on this end, so either you had been transported to somewhere else because a malfunction (unusual, but likely) or someone had taken you from the receiving warp and dropped you off in the middle of a clearing (far less likely)

Suddenly struck with worry, you sat up and moved your clothes to get a good look at your gem, letting out a relieved sigh when you saw it undamaged (clearly you’d landed where you woke up as most organics would have tried to remove it from your body before dumping you)

Realising that you were mostly safe you slowly rose to your feet and decided to explore your new environment, hand hovering near your gem in case you needed to defend yourself from whatever creatures had made their home here—trying to make yourself appear as small, quiet and unnoticeable as possible as you went

However, your efforts seemed to be in vein as you were quickly greeted by an excitable and loud human girl who practically screamed her welcome to you

You were torn between fleeing and fighting her when she offered her hand and introduced herself as “Luz the human”, her demeanour quite closely mirroring what you’d heard about Steven when he was younger from his mothers—it was almost endearing how much she tried to hold in her joy at seeing another “human”. You almost didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth as she walked you back to her home.

You were accosted at the door by an organic tube with an owl’s face that quickly and gleefully introduced itself as Hooty—the creepy, but rather friendly, house demon

Luz made an effort to hastily brush him off and hurry you both inside where you met with the other two inhabitants of the home as well as Luz’s “awesome girlfriend”, Amity.

Eda, an older witch with grey hair that hardly suited her age, greeted you with muted suspicion, not even taking her eyes off of you as she addressed the human at your side—seemingly unsure of your motives but trusting herself to be stronger than you (if her grip on her staff was anything to go by)

King, however, was much more brazen and blatant in his distrust of you, stomping over and pointing an accusing claw up at you as he threatened you in every way he could muster (even if all that got him was a halfhearted coo from you that left the creature more frustrated and downtrodden than before)

The guest, Amity, meanwhile, looked over at you with disinterest before she caught a glimpse of your (colour) gem peeking out from your clothing—immediately pointing it out and questioning you about it, much to your chagrin

This inevitably led to a very long and semi-complicated conversation discussing the intricacies of your species and how, no, you’re technically not a human

No you weren’t trying to deceive Luz, either, you just felt too awkward to correct her

But when all was said and done (and you were all out of steam after a several hour session of intense questioning and frustration at miscommunications) they seemed much more relaxed around you—even willing to let you stay with them, at Luz’s request, so long as you pulled your weight around the house and helped to keep them safe

And, really, how hard could that be? You fought in an intergalactic war so taking out a few organics should be a piece of cake (as Steven would say)

After spending a few weeks in this strange new world you had come to realise one specific thing; it wasn’t easy. It was, in fact, the exact opposite.

If you had to bubble one more guard you were going to scream

What had they done to make this Emperor hate them so much?

It felt as though half of your time was spent bubbling, blocking or disabling people that had made their way to the Owl House—and the rest was spent painstakingly explaining your abilities and species to Amity, Lilith and Luz

Granted, that wasn’t the most stressful part of your stay

No

That was hands down the stresses that came with visits from Luz’s friends from Hexside: the endlessly kind and protective Willow and the ever-curious and annoyingly quick witted Gus

That being said, you did appreciate their enthusiasm to learn about and accommodate you—even if the look Willow gave you when you spoke about the empire’s treatment of organic life did leave you rather shaken

So what little free time you had was spent learning about the local culture and sharing your experiences with them

Training with Amity and Eda

Helping Willow with her plants in whatever way you can based on your gem

Creating gem clones to help Gus perfect his illusions even further

Teaching Lilith and Luz about your abilities as well as those of your fellow gems, even helping the latter learn to write using gem glyphs

It was heartwarming to see others so passionate about your home, even if their insistence on pushing you to your limits could be rather frustrating (especially early in the mornings when your patience ran thin)

However, the longer you spent there the more members of the Emperor’s Coven (amongst others) you ended up coming across. One particularly memorable instance occurred when you were escorting a fretting Amity through Bonesborough with the twins (who’s presence you had grown rather fond of as their visits became more frequent).

Ed had dragged Em back to the library a good few minutes ago, leaving you and Amity to your own decides as you weaved in and out of the foot traffic—only to stop completely when the youngest Blight suddenly froze before grabbing your hand and darting off to an adjacent alleyway

As you went to protest, she promptly clamped one hand over your mouth and gestured rather violently for you to stay quiet before nodding towards a figure just a bit away from you

From the golden mask and white cloak you knew they were a member of the Emperor’s Coven—but you’d seen them before, on the posters littered around the city, each exploring passersby to join their coven

Golden Guard

That was a definite threat

So you passed the girl a spare cloak and did what you could to mask your own appearance before carefully making your way back home, shopping be damned—one hand over your gem just in case he happened to notice you

Though thankfully he didn’t

Not that it stopped you from filing him away as someone to be wary of anyway; he was the emperor’s right hand man, after all, so there was no such thing as being “too cautious”

And for a while that’s exactly what it was, not that you saw much of him that is, but from what you’d been told about Luz and Amity’s run ins with him you were glad to have never seen him face-to-face. If you had, you were almost certain he wouldn’t come out unscathed—teenage protege or not.

So with all that in mind, the last that you were expecting to see on a relatively peaceful Saturday evening was the unmasked Golden Guard practically unconscious and leaning on Luz and Eda for support as they burst through the door

Completely ignoring Hooty as usual as they carefully laid him down on the seat beside you (after you’d hurriedly gotten up, that is)

He looked to be in an awful state, with his visible skin bloodied, bruised and scarred whilst his usually pristine uniform was tattered and caked in dirt and what seemed to be even more of his blood

Seeming to notice your distress, Eda briefly addressed you and her sister before sending you all off to gather supplies (or heal if your gem allowed it)

“The kid’s been through a lot, but he’s with us now. Trust me, I wouldn’t have carried him all this way if I had any doubts about it.”

And that was that

It took Hunter (as he introduced himself) over a week to even be able to get out of bed and walk around unassisted—and whilst he actively avoided speaking about what had happened to him, you had a feeling that Belos was somehow involved

Though things were still rather tense for a month or so after he arrived, no matter how hard Luz tried to integrate him (and no matter how polite and welcoming Willow and Gus tried to be)

And you didn’t even want to recall the shouting match that occurred when Amity saw him in the living room with Luz….

It seemed as though he was just more content to shut himself away with L’il Rascal and only interact with Luz and Eda; the former to learn from her and the latter because she wouldn’t let him get away with anything but

That wasn’t even mentioning the palpable tension between him and Lilith (she would only say that it was from their time in the coven—and Luz suspected he’d annoyed her a bit too much—but nothing else would come of it)

But the others were worried about him, so you were sent in as a neutral party to talk with him about… things. You weren’t really told what and you didn’t have the time to ask.

Initially he was incredibly closed off and would only address you briefly, barely even acknowledging your presence as he gave his full attention to the scattered papers on his desk, each depicting a different spell and each ever so slightly off

So, as gently as you could you took the quill from him and drew a simple glyph on a spare scalp of paper, carefully leading him through the motions before leaning back and activating the spell (and smiling at his much more openly interested expression)

That then sparked a deep conversation about different types of magic—specifically wild magic and glyphs—as you shared what you knew about the topic with one another, every so often breaking off into laughter or patient silence as he’d run across the room to show you his notes or books he’d found

Naturally this would lead to him asking you about where you came from and you discussing your origins with him

Homeworld

The Diamond Authority

The gem war

Colonies

Soldiers

Shattering

The Crystal Gems

Everything

He was incredibly easy to talk to as he listened with a genuine intensity to what you said, nodding along and even asking well thought out questions about your world where appropriate

Depending on how close you were, he may even ask to see your gem and ask about its purpose

If you let him touch it, he’d be so very gentle, almost treating you as though you were made of glass—maybe even sketching it down and noting down your abilities and weaknesses in his personal notebook and apologising if it was weird

This mutual interest in magic and your shared experiences of either having to conform to a specific role your whole life [full gem reader] or feeling out of place and weaker because of your shortcomings [half gem reader] would be the basis of your friendship turned relationship. The transition between the two would be so incredibly seamless and slow that you wouldn’t even notice it happening—one moment you two were best friends sparring and the next you were hiding your blushing face in his neck as he hugs you and apologises for hitting you a bit too hard with his magic.

Your relationship would be sweet and slow and genuine

Hunter is new to receiving any kind of affection, so you’d probably have to teach him a thing or two—but he’d learn quite quickly so don’t worry

He’d spend hours studying your culture and language just to write you notes or offer you affirmations in ways unique to your culture, even calling you “my (Y/n)” after a while

Likewise, the first time you called him “my Hunter” he was left red in the face for the rest of the day (he loved it, though, so don’t stop)

But the moment someone makes a teasing remark about how soft he’s gotten (usually one of the Blight siblings or his own younger sister figure, Luz), Hunter will partially revert to being cold in public (whilst still being affectionate and openly touch starved in private)

In short, your relationship with him would be built on a foundation of mutual trust, affection and understanding that sprouted from friendship and honest conversations about your passions and pasts

[otomeramblings]

Moments when he realizes he loves you: Omi

Pairing: Omi x Reader

Pronouns: written in 2nd person; remains gender neutral

From Omi's general demeanor, I think we can all agree that he's more of a giver than a taker in all of his relationships, so it isn't surprising that such behavior would also be reflected once he is in a romantic relationship. He has a very nurturing nature, so he loves it when you rely on him because it lets him know that you trust him with your troubles. Whenever you go to him when you need help (no matter how trivial the situation might be), his chest puffs out with pride at the fact that you see him as someone dependable. Before you started dating, the first time you confided in him and let yourself cry in front of him it broke his heart in such a way that it made him realize how much he had begun to care for your happiness and well-being.

Since he dropped his old life as the “mad wolf”, Omi has really come to appreciate habits in his everyday life, he likes the security and the simple contentment that come with them. Because of this, he gets great satisfaction from going shopping together with you, grocery shopping in particular. He enjoyed it when he lived at the dorms, when you accompanied him during his trips to the store to get enough supplies to feed over 20 people. But if you were to ask him, your first trip to the store after you had moved in together was the particular instance that came to mind. You had been working around tirelessly and had decided to make a run to the store to get food to prepare your first dinner in your new apartment once the sun had started to set and your stomachs had started rumbling. The store was within walking distance but you didn’t account for the rain that started pouring down when you were halfway there; you had to rush to get there but you couldn’t avoid getting drenched even after Omi had tried to cover you with his jacket. So there you where, deciding if you wanted to be healthy and buy fruit for dessert or if you’d say, fuck it, we should go big and buy cupackes to celebrate. And he couldn’t help the fond smile that adorned his features while looking at you, you with your hair matted and sticking to your face and half drowning in his jacket, because if that moment was (hopefully) was an example of something that he’d get to experience for the rest of his life, then he couldn’t thank his lucky stars enough.

Now, as I said, he’s a very giving person. But that doesn’t mean he’s not thankful when you turn the tables on him.

Omi doesn’t get sick very often, but when he does, it usually leaves him out of commission for a couple of days. He’s the type to say that he’s fine because he doesn’t want anyone to worry about him. That said, he can’t deny that there’s something incredibly endearing about seeing you fussing over him when he gets like this. at the beginning stages of your relationship he used to feel a bit guilty about monopolizing your time and attention, but after you continued to reassure him that you wanted to care for him, he started to see things from a different perspective. Now that he pushes that guilt aside, he can’t deny the warmth that spreads through his chest whenever you bring him food and water and try to help him drink and eat, or when you take his temperature or run your fingers through his hair with touches so gentle that you’d think he was made of delicate glass.

Another thing that makes omi feel as if he were walking on cloud nine is seeing you get along with his family. He remembers one specific occasion when you two had scheduled to have dinner with them and since you were working and he had rehearsal with his troupe, you both had agreed to meet up outside the house. What he didn’t factor in was the fact that rehearsals would end up running late. In the end, you had to meet up with his family without him for an hour and half. He rushed out on his bike as soon as they wrapped things up since he didn’t want to make things uncomfortable for you. But once he arrives, he realizes he didn’t have anything to worry about. You’re finishing setting the table with his father while his younger brothers talked to you excitedly about something. You then reached out to ruffle the hair of his youngest brother and you all stuck out your tongues playfully at each other. He had paused on the doorway and his father was the first to take notice of him and ushered him into the room. Giving him a pat on the back, his father had whispered in his ear “you better not let them slip away, they’re a keeper.” Looking at your bright smile while his brothers dragged you to the main room to show you something, the only thing he could muster up was a soft “I know”

Now listen to me. We all know that Omi has many regrets about his past and that he doesn’t like to talk about it much. After he opened up to you, he’s honestly worried that you would look at him differently; he wouldn’t blame you, but it would still hurt. You don’t let this revelation change anything, of course, and he’s always grateful to have found someone who accepts him so wholeheartedly. In relation to this, there’s one thing in particular that never fails to make him melt: whenever you kiss the scar on his chin. You used to do it before he told you how he got it, but you doing it with this new knowledge always gets to him because it’s your way of sending a message, a message that says that you love him for who he is, every part of him, even those parts that he doesn’t love himself. The first time you did it right after he told you, you were laying down together, with his head on your chest while he tried to calm his racing heart after waking up from a nightmare; and you had grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles, the skin rough after all those years of fighting. Then you proceeded to place kisses over his face: on his forehead, on his eyelids, on both of his cheeks and finally on his scar, and each of them felt both as light as a feather and as warm as your love for him. His last thought before falling asleep, as he buried his face on the crook of your neck and as he listened to the calming sound of your heartbeat, is how he had never felt as safe as he did that moment in your embrace.

On a similar angsty note: let’s talk about Nachi, shall we? when he opened up to you about his past, he also told you about his friend and what had happened to him. what he didn’t tell you, though, was that he had started to tell Nachi about you as well. Periodically, Omi likes to leave new flowers in Nachi’s grave and to just update him about what’s been happening in his life. It was during one of those visits that Omi told him about you, about the time you spend together, pointing out various things he liked about you, and only when he quieted down, and the only sound around him was that of the rustling leaves being moved by the slight breeze, was that he realized that he was smiling from ear to ear and the only thoughts occupying his mind were how much Nachi would have loved to tease him for sounding like a love-struck puppy and how he wished you two would have had the chance to meet. And after some time, you do get to meet Nachi. Once Omi feels ready to introduce you, he takes you to the cemetery to finally meet his best friend. you’re nervous, of course, but following Omi’s lead, it doesn’t take you long to warm up and start talking to Nachi on your own. You talk about yourself, and you talk about Omi, about how kind and strong he’s become, about how happy he makes you and about how happy you hope to make him in turn. At that, Omi slips an arm around your waist and kisses the top of head, a few tears escaping from the corners of his eyes, and he breathes out “you already do.” The sound is faint and slightly choked up, but it sounds loud and clear in your ears, and the only thing you both hope is that it sounds that way for Nachi, too.

Note: It’s 3am and I can’t believe Omi took over my brain in such a way. But yeah, anyway, I’m thinking of maybe writing something like this for other characters and I can’t promise it will be soon since I write when inspiration strikes but if you want any character in particular, my askbox is open

Edit: re-posting this to see if it will actually show up on the tags this time -.-

[distant-rose]

Notes: Hi Fran (@killiancygnus), I was your person for Hub Secret Santa apologies on my crap question asking, but I hope you will forgive me. Anyway, you said you were interested in some modern au fluff and hopefully this hits the spot. Summary: Emma Swan has been working with Killian Jones for three years and only knows five things about him, one of them being he’s pain in her ass. She’s totally okay with this. Her meddling son with a penchant for matchmaking is not. Word Count: 4,400+ Rating: T+

In hindsight, she should have saw it coming. Since he was old enough to realize that most parents weren’t single, Henry had been trying to set her up with any and everyone, including the mailman. Most of the time his attempts at matchmaking were more endearing than anything else. However, there were also instances where her well-intentioned but meddlesome son would involve himself with things he shouldn’t and things would get awkward. 

This, Emma had already sensed, would be one of the latter cases.

“You’re mad at me,” Henry stated flatly with all the grace and subtly of any precocious child.

“I’m not mad,” she replied tiredly, rubbing at her temples and staring at the elevator ceiling with a mixture of tiredness and exasperation. “I just wish you asked me before you invited him over for Christmas. This is one of those things you’re supposed to ask me before you do it. Now, I’m going to have to adjust things and go shopping last minute so we have actual food.”

“Why can’t we just do what we normally do? I like it.”

“Because normal people don’t sit in front of the television all day and eat Tollhouse cookie dough. I’m pretty sure if we did that, we would get a lecture on salmonella and social services would be up my ass the very next day.” 

“Killian isn’t Walsh. He wouldn’t do that,” Henry said, raising his eyebrows. 

She scowled at the mention of her ex-boyfriend. Walsh had been overly critical of not only her job but also how she was raising Henry. On their last date, he had mentioned how Henry needed a proper father figure and she had promptly shown him the door. Needless to say that he hadn’t taken the break up well and the next day, she had gotten a visit from social worker from the Office of Family and Child Services.

“You don’t know him. I don’t even know him.”

“You’ve been working with him for three years, that’s like forever!”

“Yeah and I only know like five things about him.”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“You should talk to him more, I know you like him. Especially his butt. You always lean over to look at it.”

Emma rubbed at her temples, fighting the furious blush threatening to stain her cheeks. It was one thing for David to tease her but an entirely different thing for her eleven-year old son to take notice of her habit of checking Killian Jones out. 

The problem was that Emma actually liked Killian. 

She hadn’t at first when he first arrived. He had been cocky, irritating and had a reputation for trouble. He had transferred to their precinct after being undercover for seven years with the mafia before being down the entire Gold operation in a RICO case. Despite his success, there had been whispers that he had gone rogue and had gotten himself involved with Gold’s wife and it had ended in her grizzly murder. The environment at his old precinct had become toxic enough that he was transferred and had been partnered with Robin Locksley ever since. 

After hearing the rumors, Emma had been suspicious, but he proved himself be more than a self-important lothario during a kidnapping case they worked together. He hadn’t been the most professional partner she had ever had, but he had a quick wit and a determination unlike anything Emma ever seen. On top of that, he had a mind like a steel trap and knew Emma’s drink order without her  prompting.

He was a good guy albeit rough around the edges and she’s been crushing on him ever the kidnapping case. Not that she’s going to do anything about it because Emma Swan didn’t date other cops.

She’s done it before, and the thought of Graham made her heart ache. She would never forget the moment he slipped away in her arms, his blood oozing between her fingers as she tried to put pressure on his wound and screamed for help. It was something that still haunted her. 

It was why she had been determined to keep things her distance with Killian. She’s never been lucky with love and it was better for them to be friendly coworkers than to have him either ditch her or bleed out in her arms. 

But now Henry had entirely put a wrench in that plan. 

“Just give him a chance, Mom,” Henry said quietly, pulling him from her dark thoughts. “I just want you to be happy.” 

“I am happy,” she asserted, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’ve got you.”

A week later, she was swamped with work and had entirely forgotten about Henry’s invite.

Emma has never been fond of Christmas. When she was a child, Christmas had been a lonely time and a reminder no one wanted her. No number of donated presents could make up for the insincerity and aloofness from the series of foster parents she had. When she got older and had Henry, she then found resentment in the commercialism of the holiday and how ashamed she was that she couldn’t afford all the fancy toys other parents could. Joining the NYPD did nothing to change her lack of holiday spirit. There was something about the holiday season that made people go crazy and the number of cases she had skyrocketed without fail. 

Which was why she stared up in bleary eyed confusion when Killian Jones appeared in front of her desk, shifting in place and giving her an awkward smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, love, I was wondering what you wanted me to bring over for Tuesday…”

“What?”

“Tuesday. You know, Christmas? It’s bad form to show up empty handed.” 

“Oh! Ooooh,” she bit her lip, averting her eyes. “Um, nothing. No need.”

“I’ll bring some wine then. What do you prefer white or red?” 

“Seriously, Jones, you don’t have to do this. There’s no need.”

“You look like more of a white wine kind of girl, considering all that sugar you put in your coffee. I’m amazed you still have teeth sometimes, though your dentist must love you.” 

She scowled at him, leaning back and crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“There’s no need,” she repeated flatly.

“Perhaps not, but I want to. What about Henry? What does he want for Christmas this year?” 

“You are not getting my kid a present!”

“Who said anything about presents? I’m just asking what he wanted…”

Emma raised her eyebrows at him, giving him her patent unimpressed look. 

“You realize that if you don’t tell me, I’ll just text him, right?”

“You have my kid’s number?” she asked in disbelief.

“He gave it to me the day he graciously invited me over to your place for the holiday,” Killian replied, scratching behind his ear. Over the past few years of working on the force today, it was something Emma knew to be a nervous tick of his. “Unless that’s not alright…then I apologize, love. I should have asked you first.” 

She leaned further back in her seat, conflicted. He was right, he should have told her that he has been texting her kid and a part of her wanted to rail at him for disregarding her role as Henry’s parent. At the same time, a part of her had to acknowledge some truth in what Walsh had said. Aside from David, he didn’t have many positive male figures in his life, and despite his colorful past, she trusted Killian both as a cop and as a person. 

“You should have but as long as you’re not discussing work or anything inappropriate, I’m okay with it,” she replied, biting on a pen. “But you’re still not buying my son a gift.” 

“Noted. What time should I be over?” 

“Ummm...early afternoon? That’s when most people have dinner on Christmas Day, right?” She cringed at the uncertainty in her own voice.

“Is that a question, love?”

“Sorta?”

“I honestly wouldn’t know because I haven’t celebrated in ages but that’s what Hallmark tells me,” he replied, blue eyes giving her a considering look. “Why? What do you normally do?”

Emma shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  “Nothing extravagant. It’s usually just a chill day for us.”

“Well, don’t change that on my account. I don’t want to cause any extra stress.”

“You’re not. I promise. I’ll just make going to make dinner. It won’t be that big of a deal, I promise.”

Famous last words.

Emma had never been much of a cooker. While her best friend Mary-Margaret was capable of embodying the spirit of Julia Child and could whip up all sorts of amazing food, Emma was more of the microwave and toaster oven kind of girl. Her crowning dish was instant ramen with store bought cooked chicken thrown in. 

Why she thought she could tackle an entire Christmas ham on her own, she didn’t know, but come Christmas day, said ham was burned beyond recognition. The mashed potatoes she had intended for a side dish were lumpy and there was meat juice all over the expensive Christmas sweater that she had bought just for today. On top of that, she was standing on a chair and waving newspaper at her smoke detector, hoping that it would stop going off. The shrill sound grated at her ears.

It took her two minutes to get the smoker alarm to turn off and when she jumped off the chair back onto the floor, Killian Jones had somehow appeared right behind her. She let out a shriek of surprise, nearly jumping out of her skin. She stumbled backwards into the kitchen island.

“Holy shit, what are you doing here!”

“Henry let me in,” he said with a small chuckle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

It was after he spoke that Emma took in his appearance and gasped. Killian Jones was standing in her kitchen in dressed in his pajamas. Or at least a pajama set covered in snowman and reindeer. On top of wearing such a ridiculously festive set, he was almost carrying a large tub of Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie dough. 

“What the hell are you wearing? And why do you have cookie dough?”

“Well, I asked Henry what you guys did for Christmas and he told me that you guys usually lounge around in pajamas, watch Christmas movies and eat chocolate chip cookie dough. And I don’t know about you, Swan, but I can’t imagine a better way to celebrate Christmas.”

“What about the Hallmark Christmas dinner?”

“I didn’t realize I had asked for a Hallmark Christmas dinner…” Killian frowned.

“You didn’t,” she admitted, biting her lip and surveying the chaos that was her kitchen. “But I wanted to give it to you.”

“I’ve never had a Hallmark Christmas dinner, Swan, not even when I celebrated Christmas so I can miss something I’ve never had. How about this? You go back to your room and get back into proper dress code then we’ll clean this up together alright?”

“Fine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at him. “But don’t touch anything while I’m gone.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Oh, shut up, I know for a fact you’ve never been a scout, Jones,” she responded, wagging a finger at him before turning on her heel and heading into her bedroom. 

She debated getting back to last night’s pajamas but there wasn’t anything really festive about an NYPD training t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Instead, she went digging through her drawers in hopes of finding the holiday pajama set that Henry had bought her a few years ago. She found them in a crumpled heap at the bottom of her pants drawer.

She returned to the kitchen, armed in light blue penguin pajamas and fuzzy Christmas socks, only to find both Killian and Henry cleaning up her mess while listening to Jingle Bell Rock on blast. Henry was swinging his body side to side to the rhythm of the music while scrubbing her cooking pan. Killian, on the other hand, was washing the countertops and mouthing the words. 

“Whatever happened to scout’s honor?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“As you cleverly pointed out, Swan, I was never a scout.”

She rolled her eyes in response before walking over to Henry and ruffling his hair. He ducked upon the contact, giving her a goofy grin.

“What possessed you in cleaning the dishes?” she teased.

“Killian said that if I helped him pick up then he would help me build the pillow fort.

Ever since Henry could walk, they had always made a giant fort made from all the blankets, pillows and chairs in their apartment. Last year they had managed to make their fort as big as the living room and had kept the fort intact up until the end of Christmas break. Aside from eating an absurd amount of cookie dough and not wearing pants, it was one of Henry’s favorite traditions.

When they were done cleaning the remnants of Emma’s failed Christmas meal, they sauntered in the living room where Emma replaced the Pandora Christmas playlist with the Fireplace for Your Home production on Netflix, which was merely a six-hour video of a Yule log burning. Killian lifted an eyebrow at the choice.

“Interesting Christmas movie there, Swan…”

“It’s not a movie…it’s more like a fix for a craving…”

“Pardon?”

“Well, ever since I was little, all I wanted to do on Christmas was sit down next to a fireplace and watch movies, all cozy and warm. With a cat preferably, at least until I found out I was allergic. And as if you can tell, this apartment doesn’t have a fireplace, so I make do with this. Besides, there’s no movie watching until the fort is complete.”

They spent the next hour and a half bickering over the construction of the perfect blanket fort. Killian and Henry seemed intent layering the entire floor with pillows, which Emma felt was an unnecessary waste of resources. Killian had fit into their annual Christmas project so seamlessly, it felt like he had always been a part of it. When they finished their project, they were all laying in the chaotic mixture of pillows and duvet covers and staring up at the now sheet-tented ceiling. 

“We’re missing something,” Killian said, turning to look at Emma.

“What could we possibly be missing?” Henry asked in disbelief. “This is the best fort ever.”

“Got any fairy lights?” 

“What?”

“Fairy lights? You know, the ones you can hang up for Christmas?”

“You mean Christmas lights?” Henry asked. “Yeah, I think we’ve got some leftover boxes…”

“Why don’t you go get them then, lad? I have an idea.”

They hung fairy lights throughout the inside of their fort and though it was a pain in the ass to find vantage points from where to hang them, Emma could honestly say that it was probably the best fort that they had ever created. The addition of the lights gave the fort a magical mystique that none of their previous forts had possessed.

When they had been finished with the lights, Killian exited the fort only to return with the giant tub of cookie dough and three spoons.  Emma changed from the Fireplace special production to Miracle on 34th Street. 

“What do you normally do on Christmas, Killian?” Henry asked, licking away all the remaining dough off his spoon. 

“Nothing as wonderful as this,” Killian replied with a low chuckle. “Normally, I just sit at home, watching Hallmark movies and eating Chinese food. This is quite the upgrade.”

“Why Chinese food?”

“Well, you see, when I was your age, my brother and I used to watch a movie called A Christmas Story and near the end of the film, the family loses their dinner and has to go to a Chinese restaurant instead. My brother was enamored with the film and when he was alive, he went out of his way to get Chinese on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day in honor of it.”

Henry’s eyes immediately shifted to Emma’s and she knew exactly what he was thinking. Killian had embraced their Christmas traditions with open arms and perhaps it was time that they returned the favor. She slipped Henry her credit card while she and Killian headed into the kitchen to get put their dishes into the sink.

“Thank you for inviting me over, Swan…I know you burned up the ham but other than that, I hope my presence hasn’t mucked up your day too much.”

“No, no, no. Ham aside, it’s been a great day,” Emma said, washing the spoons under the facet. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m surprised you allowed this to happen in the first place, if I’m being honest.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’ve always kept me at arm’s length at the precinct. I actually wasn’t sure you even liked me.”

“I like you,” she said, tugging her hair behind her ear. “It’s just…”

“Just?”

“It’s nothing personal. I…it’s a self-preservation thing really. We don’t have the most steady and safe job in the world. Anything could happen at any time…and it’s just…it hurts less when you aren’t attached.”

“Who did you lose?” he asked softly, giving her an understanding look.

“My first partner…Graham…”

“I take you it you were close...”

She nodded quietly. He paused in his washing, wiped his hands against his pajama pants and pulled her into a hug. Emma stiffened at the unexpected contact before slowing raising her arms and resting her palms against his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured against her hair. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t empathize. I was there when my brother died and then when Milah…” It was the first time Emma ever heard Killian mention Gold’s murdered wife but she didn’t want to ruin the moment with questions about his time undercover. “That hurt never really goes away...but it does get easier…”

“I don’t think it can,” she whispered.

“It can if you let it,” he replied, blue eyes meeting hers intently. “I know it sounds strange but a broken heart can be a good thing. It means it still works.”

“What are you guys doing in here?” Henry asked in teasing voice, giving them a smirk from the doorway.

“Nothing. Just talking,” Emma replied, pulling away from Killian and brushing her hair behind her ear self-consciously.

“Riiiiiiiight,” her son replied, tone insinuating quite clearly that he didn’t believe her. “Well, if you’re done talking, I just wanted to let you know that A Christmas Story is playing on the television and I thought Killian might want to watch it.”

“I appreciate it, lad.”’

He gave Emma’s shoulder a small squeeze before moving past her. Henry just continued to smirk at her.

“You liiiiiiike him,” he teased her.

“Oh, shut up.”

“You do though!” He asserted. “You really do! Just admit it!”

“I do like him.”

“Good, because he’s awesome and better than you at making forts.”

“Hey!” She exclaimed in mock offence, leaning forward and swatting him slightly on the shoulder.

“What? It’s true!” He laughed. “So, when are you going to go on a date?”

“Date? Who said anything about a date?” She frowned, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Isn’t that what people do when they like each other? Go out on dates and then get married and be a family and what not?”

“Some people,” she replied, shaking her head. “But not me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s complicated.”

“That’s what adults say when they can’t think of anything and they’re scared.”

“Henry...enough.”

“Just think about it, Mom. He’s good. He fits in with us.” 

He didn’t wait for her to reply, storming out of the kitchen. Emma gripped the countertop, shoulders heaving as she exhaled a loud sigh. She took a moment to compose herself and get a handle on her emotions before joining the boys in the living room.

They were sitting inside the fort, resting on a mountain of pillows. Henry was asking questions about the movie and Killian was answering them with the patience of a saint.

“So this is, like, a super old movie, right?”

“Actually not as old as you think. It was actually made in the late 1980s, though it’s supposed to be a parody on the 1950s American culture. There’s a bunch of a little subtle jokes being made. Like the leg lamp.”

“The leg lamp?”

Emma crawled into the fort. Killian immediately shifted so she could sit between him and Henry. 

“Have you told him yet that this entire movie was just one big advertisement for the Red Rider corporation?”

“That’s pretty self-explanatory, Mom.”

“I consider it to be more of parody of American society than a genuine advertisement,” Killian replied before nudging her foot with his. “I like your socks, Swan. Very festive.”

“You got me these for Secret Santa like two years ago.”

“I should have known I was behind such an amazing fashion choice.”

Even as he brought his foot back down to the floor, he kept his leg right next to hers. When she didn’t move away from the contact, his foot tapped hers again. She smiled and as she was about to tap his in response, there was a knock at the front door.

“Expecting more company?”

“No, only more food.”

“More food?”

“Yeah,” she smiled as she got out of the fort and opened the front door. Her eyes bulged as she took in the amount of bags the delivery boy was holding. She stared at it for a moment before turning back to stare at her son.

“Dude, how much food did you get?”

“I didn’t know what Killian liked so I got everything…”

“Everything? Are you kidding me?”

“Swan, what’s going on?” Killian asked in confusion.

“My son is trying to bankrupt me is what is going on,” Emma scowled as she took the bags and brought them over to the kitchen table.

The boys came out of the fort to inspect the hull. Killian’s eyes widened when he realized what he was looking at.

“Is this Chinese food?”

“Yeah, everything on the menu from Xao Ming,” Henry said, already riffling through the bags.

“Look, we appreciated you being so into our pajama, pillow fort and cookie dough Christmas tradition and we thought that we should add some of your traditions too…” Emma said, giving him a small smile.

“This…this...this is too much.”

“Oh...it’s definitely too much food and we’re going to be eating Chinese for week, but no, you’ve been great and it’s your Christmas too. Besides, the crab rangoons are to die for.”

“I don’t know how to thank you….” Killian said, looking uncharacteristically lost for words.

“You can thank me by helping me by eating all of this food.”

They made plates and brought their food over to their fort. A Christmas Story was just finishing up. They flipped channels until they came across The Snowman animated movie. 

After stuffing his face with food, Henry almost immediately fell into a coma food. His head lulled on Killian’s shoulder, mouth gaping and snoring softly. Killian chuckled.

“Do you want me to help move him?”

“Yeah, thanks. He’s getting too big for me to carry,” she whispered.

Emma grabbed Henry’s legs and Killian got him by the shoulders. Together, they moved him out of the fort and into Henry’s room. Emma tucked him in, running her fingers through his hair and giving him a kiss goodnight before following Killian out in the hallway.

“It’s getting late and I should go…” he said, sounding rather reluctantly.

Emma glanced at the clock over his shoulder, eyes widening when she realized it was well into the evening. The day had gone by like a blink of an eye and she was almost sad, it was ending.

“Holy shit...yeah...look at the time. I’ll walk you out”

They walked closely to each other as they headed down the hallway, their hands brushing against each other’s. They lingered in the doorway.

“Thank you for inviting me for, Swan. This was the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time…”

“I can’t take credit for this. This was Henry.”

“You’ve got an amazing kid there, Swan. You should be proud. You’ve done amazing with him.”

“You mean, amazing for a single mom?” Emma asked, remembering Walsh’s dig at her parenting tactics.

“Amazing for anyone,” he corrected. “You have raised an intelligent and thoughtful young man.”

“Thanks…”

“I only have one question. What’s with the mistletoe?”

Emma blinked, staring at him in confusion. “What?”

Killian chuckled before pointing upwards. Her eyes followed the direction of his finger and, sure enough, there was a few sprigs of mistletoe tacked above the door. She gaped at it for a few moments before letting out a noise of frustration.

“Henry…”

“Henry?”

“Henry did this,” she clarified. “He’s been trying to set us up.”

“Yeah,” Killian chuckled. “I gathered that. He isn’t exactly subtle, love.”

“I’m so sorry about it.”

“No, it’s alright. I appreciate the show of support. Like I said, you have a great kid.”

“Thanks. And for the record, you don’t have to kiss me…”

“But what if I want to?” He asked playfully, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“Well then…I guess...you could if you wanted to…” 

His eyes bulged, looking just as surprised as she felt. She never expected the evening to end with her being comfortable with the idea of kissing him. It went against all of her self-imposed rules. Yet, somehow over the night, she had grown comfortable with the idea. Watching him interact with her kid had assuaged some of her fear. 

“So, that’s a yes?” He stepped further into her personal space, bringing his hand up so that his thumb brushed against the apple of her cheek. 

“Pretty much yeah…”

He tilted his head down and kissed her softly. It was tentative at first, a mere brush of his lips against hers, as if he were afraid that she was going to pull away. Emma wasn’t satisfied with this, wrapping her arms around his neck and slanted her mouth harder against his. When her brushed against his bottom lip, Killian’s enthusiasm and participated grew. She relished the low rumble in his chest and how his mouth opened to hers, deepening the kiss.

It was over before either of them were ready to stop. They swayed against each other, trying to chase each other’s lips. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers.

“That was…” he trailed off, apparently lost for words.

“Something else,” she finished. “Want to come over tomorrow and help me polish off the mountain of Chinese food in my fridge?”

“Absolutely...so this wasn’t a one-time thing?”

“Definitely not.”

[ratherhavetheblues]

CLAIRE DENIS’ HIGH LIFE “It’s called a taboo…”

© 2019 by James Clark

     Although this film, from 2018, proceeds with an English lexicon, it is most important to comprehend the French title. Une Vie en Hauteur, translates as, “a haughty, superior, arrogant approach toward others.” What sort of intransigence could be in play within our film today? There is, as we all know at some level, a distemper underway between amateurs of reality and those professionals regarding the former as having failed to digest the ultimacies already in full flower, namely, religion, humanitarianism and science. (All of which, seemingly, despite little tiffs, well embarking unconditionally all three of them at once.) With her film, High Life, filmmaker, Claire Denis, has squarely ventured into that latter buttress, science, whereby she stands (in many eyes) to be embarrassed by the “hauteur” of her betters. Moreover, let’s not kid ourselves that such “ladies” pastimes will be merely met with droll tolerance.

Our helmswoman here does have up her sleeve the resources of a guy who posthumously maintains a filmic action as far from “ladies concerns” as you can get, namely, Ingmar Bergman, an avatar of very high problematic. She has deployed for our considerations a film which, on the surface, has nothing to do with science, namely, The Seventh Seal (1957)—a biblical concomitant which leaves room for heresy during 12th century Sweden, bristling with witch-burning, flagellation and a far-reaching plague. A couple, Jof and Marie, itinerant circus entertainers, choose to be not fans of the regional leadership (just back from a crusade), who obsesses about living forever, by somewhat odd but actually usual means. The couple—but Jof definitely in the lead—see in their infant son a budding acrobatic genius and juggler the likes of which the world has never seen. Those latter gifts will reappear in our matter before us, in a scenario millennials’ into the future, whereby the march of (bored?) science has dreamed up travel far beyond the Solar System to transport death-row killers into the range of the nearest black hole, and others’ beyond, in hopes of some miracle. During this time-bending amazement, one protagonist, Monte, the highest flyer, another Jof, but very different, what with the bloody Jacobean melodrama blazing, encounters another such craft from that site of inspiration, but this time with a crew of dogs.

The first scenes appear to be far remote from a saga reeling from “hauteur,” let alone outer space. We begin with a lush and sunny vegetable garden sparked with reverberant musical undergrowth. Gentle mist brings about an ambience of decidedly earthy locale. Then a rather jarring note—a muddy pit and a ladder looking down. A baby cries, and we’re soon taken to an office where the child stands up in an improvised playpen, watching two screens featuring American Indians. The baby babbles happily, and, as if a cue, we cut to an astronaut, repairing something on the surface of the gray craft, while being connected by radio to the office. He smiles on hearing the happy child. “Da-da,” she calls. “Dada,” it is.

Then down to business. The show that day on the screens is short on baby talk. On the monitor at the left, there is, in silhouette, an aboriginal warrior on his horse (filmed in black and white). The peculiar headpiece resembles a bird of prey, or also a wolf’s head. (The world of wolves being germane in Bergman’s eyes, particularly in the film, Hour of the Wolf [1968].) On the monitor at right, we have a dying brave with, if not an atomic bomb, a lot of smoke pouring upward. The baby smiles. When the screen becomes a sunburst void, the young viewer begins to cry. The dad tries, “Shhh,” as a fix. She screams, and the enhanced communication factor causes a fright which results in the tool he was using to fly into the primal darkness. On his way in, we see a close-up of Monte’s mouth along with two cold spotlights in the surround. (Inherent cold?) Also, we see him wearing a set of underclothes which might have been used in the 12th century. Just before that entry, the repairman repairs to a reverie of circular stones and hardened mud in semi-darkness. Amidst that apparition was a small tooth-like, white object. Then the imagery attends to sharpened focus, and an arm with a bloody hand holding a bloody rock, which promptly relinquishes its burden into the void, to be followed by the arm lifting upward and quickly disappearing (perhaps elicited by the baby’s howl startling him to drop his wrench into infinity). Hour of the Wolf includes its protagonist fracturing the skull of a bothersome child by a similar action. And Monte, as later seen in flashback within that first flashback, had been on death row due to crushing the head of a young girl with the rock seen in that vision. Her annoyance to Monte involved noticing the mutilated and drowned dog of his he’d savaged, where we were able to see our-dad-of-the-hour displaying the full jacket from the avant-garde glimpse of sleeve.

When finally stifling for the time being that horror, the reformed travelling killer proves to be not so shabby a single parent. By way of the ladder, he accesses the garden, chooses a legume and promptly and gently provides a healthy pablum. After that, seated on the kitchen floor, he bathes the girl with skill, affection and patience. They play awhile with a red devil sort of doll. (Later, he withstands the girl’s loud and long crying jag.) But his loving solicitude does have a veer. With attention to emotive care, he delivers a sort of eccentric Ted Talk. “Don’t eat your own shit… Don’t drink your own piss… Don’t swallow horseshit… It’s called a taboo, tooo…booo… If my old man could see me now… Brake the laws of nature… You’ll pay for it, you son of a bitch!” After hours of deafening screaming, Monte complains to his only listener. “So many tears from such a tiny little body…Please, it’s gonna kill me…” It stops. The baby pulls at the skin on his arm. “Look at that,” he says. Monte sits by the bed, beholding a miracle. After she falls asleep, he says, “You don’t drown them like a dog… It’d be so easy… That’d be a first, and then me.” This sequence ends with him and her at the garden. She feeds him a strawberry, and he’s all smiles. At the ladder, he holds her and encourages her to climb up. “Up, up…”

   “Don’t eat your own shit,” would be a strange but potent gambit as to disinterestedness. The avatars of advantage—and they number by the billions—can’t get enough of dubious golden oldies. Denis pivots at this point, whereby the action up till now constitutes the newest stage while flashback to the preboarding and then subsequent earlier vignettes march apace. Why? We need to see, by way of the history of this flight, how bad and how good things go under the aegis of a hard and dominant sell. Though the film finds Monte trying not to eat shit by challenging a lead pipe punk, namely, Boyse, for carving with a hard and sharp weapon a graffiti into a wall at the medical zone, we encounter her first a bit out of order (very appropriate for her) as an insert showing particulars before she’s arrested. Boyse, we’ll tell you now, is the baby’s mom, induced by the medic, Doctor Dibs, the Pedant of Pregnancy, who has recruited, all the guys but Monte, to a daily regime of masturbation for the sake of in vitro fertilization—the payoff being a mild drug. Her one and only success being with stand-off, Monte, as we’ll describe in the order of the flashback.

Whereas Boyse, as you’ll see, is almost totally feral and destructive during her stint in the sky, there is a brief but searing episode involving her on land, which leaves you enchanted. Like a great acrobat, she gracefully and powerfully uses the instances of the boxcar to reach the roof—in this rooftop position being kin to Monte. Moreover, the travellin’ kids resemble, somewhat, Jof and Marie, in their caravan. (A third rider, at another place on the train, puts up his middle finger and smiles in a rather shy manner to no one in particular; but to everyone in fact.) As night takes over, she leans back in a shallow container and relishes the currents from the plunge of the iron horse, and the darkness. She and her cohort sleep closely and on cardboard. Almost as gritty as old-time coal miners, it is the grottiness on their exposed calves that both repels and endears them to us. One more noteworthy, earlier moment on terra firma, consists of her stretching out here hand, to feel the ripple of prevailing wind as the train races on. In doing so, she’s surprisingly at work on her education, an education you won’t find in college because the jailers there have a very big gun (named, classical rational thought) trained on students and faculty alike. We saw that same laconic gesture with the protagonist of Denis,’ White Material (2009), wherein she was having too much adventurous—actually, suicidal—fun  to heed the classical rational chopper screaming at her to get the hell up and out of a nasty civil war.

   Back to the dust-up at the hospital/ lab, Boyse rips a long wound along Monte’s arm, for his interfering in her showing how little she respects the doctor. (Bergman had a long history of portraying medics as not up to the intimacies of sensibility.) While being patched up by Dr. Dibs (that term denoting Straight A’s as far as it goes), the patient, rather surprisingly, sees fit to explicitly mention that he sees value in her range of interests. (Though he comes across as an inflected born-again Aquarian, he does have a whack of pedantry. Will it cripple, over [bloated] time here, his scatological commitment to disinterestedness? [Back to the time of the baby, we see him earnestly posting reports—for instance, how he removed and replaced the defective piece of surface—while such messaging had been defeated by the light-years’ gap. On the other hand, he brags, “I never caved in” [to the sleep-killing noise]. And then the baby’s strawberry gift to Monte; and Boyce’s strawberry hair and complexion, once scrubbed up. Bergman’s, Wild Strawberries [1957] being a parable of pristine recovery. The numeral “7,” placed on the craft and on all the uniforms, perhaps refers to the release date, 1957, of both The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries. The signage, “9,” on the dog craft, might refer to Bergman’s, The Passion of Anna, 1959, where the protagonist is a killer of farm animals. Denis often joins Jim Jarmusch’s umbrage [not to mention’s that of Kelly Reichardt] toward those abusing entities far more consistently and effectively balanced than humans. Monte’s history of killing his dog, not to mention killing his neighbor, would be perhaps a factor not completely resolved.)

We already have a lot of cards on the table, here; but a direction to thrill us is nowhere to be seen. Or, rather, I’ve found it advisable until now, that the soundtrack and playlist be stilled, the better to orient the viscosity and traction struggling to make headway. Denis’ musical force, “Tindersticks” (having already almost stolen the show in her film, 35 Shots of Rum [2009]), endeavor, by reverberant and seductive aural thrust, to further illuminate the mastery of eschewing one’s own shit. Much startling pain and confusion are right around the corner. But it is the measure of thrust (acrobatics) we must especially ponder.

We could describe the crisis woven for us to be the limits of control. As it happens, Jim Jarmusch put out, in 2009, a film, called, The Limits of Control, including actress, Tilda Swinton, tall, thin and blonde, who comes to an unpleasant end. Another of the killers onboard here, rather alike Tilda (but with a prominent scar the length of her right cheek), confronts Dibs, “Why do you keep taking this sperm?” Her stressed response is, “The odds are not in our favor. But when my work of perfection is achieved…” That unwelcome question drives the perfectionist to another dimension of bounty, situated by the stairs close to the earthy garden, namely, that presiding lunge of emotive delight, known as the fuckbox, a small but powerful rollercoaster to help survive the stupid fuckers who stuck them there. Joining Dibs nearer to what really matters to her, when freed of taboos, and with the band of the day attending to reverb and real invention, she, along with means of intervention, joins those dance rebels (writhing acrobats) like Loie Fuller, Isadora Duncan, Josephine Baker and Martha Graham. (The Bergman film—and right here I’d like to declare how many viewers were wrong about it being a flop, namely, The Serpent’s Egg [1977], features such a dance innovation.) On ending her gig, she immediately bumps into Monte headed to the garden. “I know I look like a witch,” she says. Her handsome outreach (juggling) is met by Monte’s pedantry, “That doesn’t seem to do you much good.” Her retort, “Better than you think,” does, at least leave room for imperfection. Monte, overly proud to tell himself and her, “I kept my fluids to myself,” continues, “So humiliating… You need to wipe your nose.” He rubs her upper lip. An odd register between a boss and an underling, however the miasma may run. But not an odd register between spouses. (Boyse will, later on, have the nerve to pull from her that Dibs had wiped out her whole family. But her credentials gave her a measure of gravitas.) The one sworn to saves lives argues, “You all come to look at me at night.” He counters, “You’re foxy and you know it. I just can’t understand your mission… I still believe in the mission. However, he can conclude, “It’s just a new religion for you.” And she can swing back to, “Because I’m totally devoted to reproduction.” She leaves him with, “Happy Monk, going to sew your fields.”

   The slipping and sliding of that twosome on the go, close to the speed of sound, have, going forward, neither the luxury nor the talent to polish their genius. On their voyage to short love and long death, they become immersed with disease and murderous hate. But their far from insignificant efforts lift this crash to something sublime. Boyce, swamped by her refusal to recognize limits of control involving a paradoxical agency, peels away from the center of the action, to be briefly superseded by the leukemia of a man beset by the lurking of radiation. Having a glimpse of her at her level best, we’re not astonished that Dibs has a heart. Her empathy strikingly conveys cinematically by the superimposing over her face of the cancer cells from a scan. So engaged is she by soothing the pain in gently touching him, the dying man kisses Dibs and she responds in kind. In contrast, there is Monte, with light years away from wisdom, crudely insisting, “I have good genes.” He adds, “Stink, the usual stench. It gets me hard…” Dismissing such trash, she assures the victim she’ll dull his pain. “There is nothing to fear, I promise…” He responds, “Everything’s gonna’ be fine…” On the heels of that real confluence, she unfortunately declares, “No one to help me, as I’m helping you… No one to put me out of my misery… I’m alone with my guilt…” The man closest to death tries to say something. She puts her ear to his mouth. She inserts the poison, and she mourns the disappearance, more profound than a black hole.

Also getting him hard in this moment is a frail young Brit with a triangular tattoo on his neck and another one on his arm. He’s no Stephen Hawking (that celebrated black-hole-mathematically-sharp-gazer); but there is something about his irreverence and appetite for the flashy—following up Dibs at the earthquake room, and addressing her as, “Fucking cock block” –which is bound to be spectacular, if not tremendously substantive. In the wake of the long death throes, he wakes up in the middle of the night and discovers that he craves more dark stories. He comes to a three-woman bedroom and decides to rape Boyse. The ensuant disarray involves the tall skeptic wedded to the limits of control trying to help a figure who knows another field of dynamics. The former gets dragged out to the corridor and beaten senseless. Monte arrives and subdues the rapist; and while his attention is elsewhere in the chaos another woman with a knife stabs the troublemaker many fatal times, including ripping out his eyes.

Earlier on, there is a dip to our planet where a celebrity pundit conducts an interview with a Millennial journalist, around Boyse’s age. They’re sitting in First Class, and the subject is the flight and what a shame the physicists are on the wrong track to rehabilitate criminals. He’s particularly miffed that the space riders on the rapid move, with a vehicle resembling a ghetto Walmart, will never return to Earth. Dibs, though sleeping through the little war, is on the hook to elevate the tone she actually knows quite a bit about. (If she felt like it, she’d have pondered the syntheses flashing on the two triangular tattoos, and the triad of lights at the craft’s rear end.)  Beyond lockdowns she knows she needs some magic, being a witch, a bit more stable than the witch in The Seventh Seal, who, nevertheless, does better than the pundit. Sometime, perhaps prodigious speed-of-light later, she tip-toes to Monte’s bed and sort of rapes him. While he sleeps through the invasion, she pledges her love to him. She kisses his hand; she sucks his finger; she opens her blouse. “Will you hold me?” she whispers. “Why don’t you take me in your arms? I close my eyes. I hold you… Hold me…” She mounts him. “Feel me, Monte.” Astride, and a moment of far-sighted love, she kisses him. “Monte, thank you!” She carries the semen to the lab, places it in a vial, comes to Boyse’s bed, kisses her belly and introduces the semen. This singularity elicits a blaze of a galaxy tinted with pink hues.

   Soon after the violent targeting of Boyse, and quite a while before she’s pregnant, she’s with Dibs at the clinic. The witch remarks, “Not so easy to get inside you as you think…” Boyse, rather surprisingly, laments, “I’ll never have kids. I’m sure of it.” (That happens to be the same remark by Eve, a flakey and promiscuous wife, in Bergman’s film, Shame [1968].) The hardened cynic asks for confirmation that the controller killed her youngster. “With a knife!” is the answer. Countering her dismay, she moisturizes her hands and braids her remarkably long hair. Soon after Boyse, with a baby in an incubator and pouring out milk, there comes to her a storm of resentment concerning a looming loss of wildness. (Not so easy to get inside the you.) Dibs’ delight in this coup (Monte not yet up to speed) coincides with a close encounter of the first of many planned and completely daft “experiments” –perhaps a Trump-like administration in play—with a neighborhood of comic-based thrills. The skeptical blonde had been tagged to take one for the team, but Boyse, thinking that her best move would be a comic book finale, kills the intended and goes on to kill herself with a black entity demanding grown-up reflection.

There is a cordial black (perhaps a one-time traitor of “intelligence”) who shares the work of gardening, and who misses his gospel-based wife. His quirky will to die coincides with the outset of Monte’s tenure of parenting. Dibs, our protagonist’s not-quite-to-roll-on as a Marie to Monte’s Jof, due to her being assassinated by one of her many enemies, and according by him a dignified funeral in slow-motion upon the heavens, may have lost a new outlook on life. But Monte, that lucky stiff, shows us a possibility and a failed possibility of some measure. (As seen before the long, long flashback, there was now visibility about his visit to the multiplex’s morgue [with a complement awaiting a miracle], suiting them out and flushing them out to graces of dynamics they hardly knew. One other thing, he descends to a tantrum concerning the phenomenon of death there. Looks like overcoming eating your own shit is still a work in progress.)

As we begin to put an end to that early odd story, the witch’s singularity has overshot that noisy baby girl. (One moment back there, shows Monte opening the incubator door. He holds the baby and he smiles.) She’s an adolescent now, and the delight with the baby has been overrun by bothersome questions—a bothersome girl about that age having once been murdered by him. Monte’s first annoyance onscreen is that she insists upon sleeping with him. “Get outta here…Too heavy now…Go back to your own bunk… Crazy girl!” In her bunk she calls out, “Too far…”

Facing the day, we are struck by the shabbiness of their clothes and the craft’s interior. Will to live is on the line. The baby’s name is Willow. Their dilemma is extraordinary, but not unprecedented. How to go forward in what certainly appears to be a dead-end. (Boyse and her friends on the freight were about that.) Monte has become subdued; but he does now instinctively describe an acrobatic move with his hands. The ship is an eyesore, but in addition to its long history of essential emptiness, it continues to maintain three lights in triangular form. The Hawking departure went nowhere. But the magic of true dialectic was there for the asking. Willow is of a mind to say, “Looks like out.” The visit from “9” (perhaps, as mentioned, regarding Bergman’s film, The Passion of Anna [1969], where the title figure comes to light as a maniacal killer of farm animals) is probably unhelpful regarding their being between a rock and a hard place. (Moreover, there is the virtual date of 1959 for the Bergman film, The Magician, where a wizard is not.) But, then, beasts are not to be overlooked. Then there is the notice, on a dysfunctional apparatus, announcing, “Communication Error.” This barrier somehow drives Willow to realize, “We don’t need help.”

   In the brush with the dogs, Monte covers her eyes, guessing more slaughter to come. Its turning out to be merely sad sends her reverting to childishness. “I want a dog so bad!”  She calls him cruel for worrying about an epidemic, a plague. “What do you know about cruelty?” he snaps. (The plague being probably everywhere.) He retreats to the garden and washes up. She tells him, “You’re right, dad. I’m sorry. I have everything I need here…” (That couldn’t be right, could it?) The soundtrack rings out a far-reaching possibility. The undirected screen comes back to life, and delivers a Half-Time American Football marching band (perhaps not so far-reaching). He notices her in the disposition of praying. “What God are you praying to?” She explains, “I saw them on the random images from Earth. I just wanted to know how it feels. An event onscreen shoes the ancient blue and white Swedish flag, from the era of Jof and Marie. They have a view of another black hole.” “It’s like a mouth that just swallows up,” he says. “Too big.” she agrees. But she comes back with, “We should try it. To feel it” [Boyse felt it]. Monte’s hair is now pepper and salt. He quietly chides, “Thought we were supposed to be drifters.” (That couldn’t be right, could it?) She persists, “But it’s so big… I think the density is very low.” He shakes his head. “I believe it,” she concludes. Now they’re at the entry zone, setting up a two-seater, like the one Boyse commandeered. Something possesses her to add, “I’m sad you’d leave your data, even your prisoner list” [pedantry being a hard disease to beat]. In quite a mood swing, resembling her mother, she declares, “I’ll be destroyed by the fire wall of the black hole, anyway!” Now en route, she over activating the ways of acrobatics, she reports, “Here’s the fire wall. I know it. We’ll make it through.” From here to there, she turns to the super-quixotic: “Do I look like my mother?” [quite a question]. Since she clearly looks more like Monte [or Dibs] than Boyse, his answers, as to her mother’s features, are all no’s. He tells her she has rodent teeth… a little rat… But he grants her, “You’re special. You’re like no one else. I love that.” Their little ship has only two lights. The magic did not prevail. But there was some golden to love.

We then see a rapid re-spooling of scenes of defeat: the aboriginals; the garden; #7… With an oxygen level of appalment, the drama takes over, asking why did they shut down? True, there were mountains (as per Monte) to manage. But the second necessity, juggling, was hardly considered in this rocketing blaze of being a soloist, first and foremost.

This film’s underwhelming optics plays into that aberration. But its aural life brims with reverberance, a ripple of energy, wherein juggling comes to life, and that careless term, “the heavens,” comes onboard. Denis’ association with the British band, Tindersticks, has carried us to new frontiers of mood; and mood, whether acknowledged or not is pretty much everything. Sonic acrobatic initiatives and their juggling responsiveness-in-appreciation installs a work and play space to challenge the suicidal outcome in High Life. Were the last two standing fully aware of that dance of life, the radical confinement could have sustained duets and solos-not-so-definitively-solo.

Willow

Willow, where are you hiding now?

Willow, where are you hiding now?

In the dappled light, deep in the trees

The spiders and the centipedes

Crawl across your hands, across your knees.

Willow, do you walk across the sand?

Willow, do the waves crash and fall?

And their fingers tickle at your feet

And pull a little as they retreat.

Do you feel the rushing forward?

Though you’re standing still?

Willow, are we rushing forward, are we standing still?

Willow, are we rushing forward, are we standing still?

Willow, do you crouch among the rooftops?

Willow, do you listen to the city wheezing?

And your dreams, they stretch beyond the clouds

And past…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOHFktF5E1o