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The minute Steve receives the e-mail - he's at least become pretty good at reading his messages, even if his typing is still horrible - he knows what he has to do. The first step is, of course, to get a birthday cake of some sort, and since there are candles in the kitchen, that is where he is currently trying his luck with a replicator.
"A birthday cake," he tells it, hopefully. "And if you have any idea what Clint likes best, that would be perfect."
He has no idea if Clint even has a sweet tooth, but it's the thought that counts. A minute later, he's gotten a Yule log, something which he thinks is Christmas pudding, a box of Christmas crackers, some stollen, and a king cake.
"Not a holiday cake," he's telling the replicator, very patiently. "A birthday cake. Please."
This time, he gets a pie, with homemade crust and apple filling.
Clint isn't exactly the type to celebrate birthdays loud and proud and he had hoped the message sent out by the ship would be buried by someone else's announcement. By midday, it isn't, and he decides to sneak out to the kitchen and risk being congratulated.
"Uh, hey Steve. Nice pie you've got there."
From the smell, Steve thinks it's... "Apple pie. Do you like it?"
It's worth asking, because the replicator is being particularly contrary today.
"My favorite," Clint confirms. "As much as anything is a favorite of mine. It's got pretty good taste today."
Apple pie reminds him of the Midwest and wholesome things that he's left behind or, possibly more accurate: never had to begin with. It's something that he doesn't have easy access to on the station.
Steve shoots the replicator a look that seems to say, 'Well done, you,' before he turns back to Clint, and holds the pie out with a small, but a hundred percent genuine smile. "Happy birthday, Clint."
"A birthday cake," he tells it, hopefully. "And if you have any idea what Clint likes best, that would be perfect."
He has no idea if Clint even has a sweet tooth, but it's the thought that counts. A minute later, he's gotten a Yule log, something which he thinks is Christmas pudding, a box of Christmas crackers, some stollen, and a king cake.
"Not a holiday cake," he's telling the replicator, very patiently. "A birthday cake. Please."
This time, he gets a pie, with homemade crust and apple filling.
Clint isn't exactly the type to celebrate birthdays loud and proud and he had hoped the message sent out by the ship would be buried by someone else's announcement. By midday, it isn't, and he decides to sneak out to the kitchen and risk being congratulated.
"Uh, hey Steve. Nice pie you've got there."
From the smell, Steve thinks it's... "Apple pie. Do you like it?"
It's worth asking, because the replicator is being particularly contrary today.
"My favorite," Clint confirms. "As much as anything is a favorite of mine. It's got pretty good taste today."
Apple pie reminds him of the Midwest and wholesome things that he's left behind or, possibly more accurate: never had to begin with. It's something that he doesn't have easy access to on the station.
Steve shoots the replicator a look that seems to say, 'Well done, you,' before he turns back to Clint, and holds the pie out with a small, but a hundred percent genuine smile. "Happy birthday, Clint."
