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The world seemed to have built of references to movies he had not seen, songs he had never heard, history facts and rumors that had not been in any of his SHIELD briefings or come up immediately in the spiraling searches through the internet in his attempt to catch himself up on more than seventy years of time in just two. It had made the small notebook he kept in his back pocket and carried with him always one that had dog-eared pages, the corners worn soft by handling despite his attempt to keep it with its precious lists inside neat as he could. People, he had found, were eager to drop hints and give directions on what they believed was the most important for him to know - war stories, modern art, 'indie' music, cultural trends he had never heard of and didn't quite understand (what were 'beatniks' anyway? and how did they relate to something called a 'hipster?')
For every line he crossed off in understanding, he added three more. For every movie, six more came out in theatres and he was told there was another one he just <i>had</i> to see. Where he had attempted to meter it out by decades, pop culture had exploded beyond those tentative boundaries, and he had given up doing more than seeing what he came across first or pushing items to the front of the proverbial line according to how often they were referenced or how integral he was told they were by people he thought he could trust on the subject.
Which brought him to a movie, and a girl, and a bucket of popcorn.
Actually, it brought him to the first of three movies (he had been warned, loudly and violently, off the prequels and so counted only three as needing to be seen) and a gorgeous, powerhouse warrior woman, and a whole lot more than one paltry bucket of popcorn. Each.
"Sif?" he began, wondering not for the first time whether he should have reconsidered Sam's offer of back up with the way his stomach flipped at the sight of her face turning toward his and how unaccountably worried he was over literally tripping over his own feet when her eyes settled on him. "I don't know about you, but I'm thinking we should raid the concessions stand."
For every line he crossed off in understanding, he added three more. For every movie, six more came out in theatres and he was told there was another one he just <i>had</i> to see. Where he had attempted to meter it out by decades, pop culture had exploded beyond those tentative boundaries, and he had given up doing more than seeing what he came across first or pushing items to the front of the proverbial line according to how often they were referenced or how integral he was told they were by people he thought he could trust on the subject.
Which brought him to a movie, and a girl, and a bucket of popcorn.
Actually, it brought him to the first of three movies (he had been warned, loudly and violently, off the prequels and so counted only three as needing to be seen) and a gorgeous, powerhouse warrior woman, and a whole lot more than one paltry bucket of popcorn. Each.
"Sif?" he began, wondering not for the first time whether he should have reconsidered Sam's offer of back up with the way his stomach flipped at the sight of her face turning toward his and how unaccountably worried he was over literally tripping over his own feet when her eyes settled on him. "I don't know about you, but I'm thinking we should raid the concessions stand."
