Hirsute Space Truckers. Part Two.
Miles wiped a grease-stained hand across his forehead, leaving a dark smear against his hairline. "Well, don't just stand there admiring the view, Will. If I don’t get this EPS manifold seated and the thermal shielding locked down, we’re going to be roasting like Aldebaran poultry once the sun hits the meridian."
Will didn't say a word. He just gave that signature, lopsided smirk—the one that had charmed half the quadrants in the galaxy—and started unbuckling his gear.
Miles tried to keep his eyes on the recalcitrant waveguide, but he found himself watching the rhythmic, practiced movements of a man who was entirely comfortable in his own skin. Will kicked off his boots and shucked his trousers, tossing them onto a nearby crate. Then the shirt went, revealing a grey tank top that strained against a broad chest and a soft, comfortable belly that spoke of good food and a life finally lived off the clock.
When Will stepped into the light of the cargo bay, dressed only in the tank and a pair of dark boxer briefs, Miles felt a sudden, sharp thrum in his chest that had nothing to do with the Pulaski's power grid.
For years, Miles had played the part. He’d been the dutiful husband to Keiko, the harried father to Molly and Kirayoshi, the rock-solid NCO who kept the station running. He’d loved his family, truly, but there was a quiet, private room in his heart he’d kept locked tight for decades. Now, with the kids grown and Keiko happily back in Japan cultivating hybrid orchids and a new life with a local professor, Miles was just a man in a rusty bucket with his own truth for company.
Watching Will—silver-edged and undeniably handsome in the sweltering San Diego heat—Miles felt that old lock rattle.
"You're staring, Miles," Will said, his voice a low, playful rumble. He dropped down onto the deck beside him, the heat from his body radiating against Miles's bare shoulder. "Something wrong with my 'layout'?"
"I’m just checking to see if you’ve gone soft in your old age," Miles blurted out, his Irish lilt thick and defensive. He looked back down at the panel, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Hold that bypass lead for me. And don't let it touch the housing unless you want a permanent tan."
Will reached in, his thick, hairy arm brushing against Miles’s as he gripped the lead. "I’ve never been soft where it counts, Chief. You know that."
The proximity was agonizing. Miles could smell the salt air on Will’s skin, mixed with the faint, nostalgic scent of the sandalwood soap he’d used since the Enterprise days. For a moment, the Pulaski felt very small, and the silence between them very loud.
"Right," Miles muttered, his hands trembling just a fraction as he tightened a bolt. "Let's just get this bitch closed up before we both melt."
The heavy hydraulic hum of the cargo doors finally sealed out the San Diego humidity, replaced instantly by the sharp, pressurized hiss of the Pulaski’s climate control. The rush of recycled air hit their damp, salt-filmed skin like a bucket of ice water, sending a synchronized shiver through both men.
"God’s teeth, that’s cold," Miles wheezed, rubbing his palms over his silver-dusted chest hair to generate a bit of heat. He looked at Will, who was standing in the center of the hold in his tank top and briefs, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the blue-lit interior of the ship's throat.
Will reached for his discarded civilian trousers, but Miles held up a greasy hand. "Hold on a minute, Will. Don't go putting those rags back on just yet."
Miles turned to a small, secure equipment locker bolted near the internal airlock. He punched in a code—0-7-1-0, his old engineering ID—and the drawer slid open with a pneumatic sigh. From the sterile interior, he pulled out two bundles of heavy-duty, slate-blue fabric.
"Consolidated UFP logistics issue," Miles said, tossing one bundle toward Riker. "Katherine had them commissioned when she signed over the deed. High-tensile poly-weave. Acid resistant, thermal-regulated, and tougher than a Klingon’s breakfast."
Will caught the suit, unfolding it to see the bold, white-stitched letters across the back: U.S.S. PULASKI. A circular UFP patch sat on the shoulder, a clean, sharp contrast to the grit of the ship they were currently standing in.
Miles watched, his breath hitching slightly, as Will stepped into the suit. Riker didn't bother with modesty; he pulled the heavy fabric up over his muscular thighs and adjusted the seat. With a practiced motion, Will pressed the small haptic toggle at the waist. The "smart-fit" filaments hummed, the suit instantly shrinking and contouring to map Riker’s specific, barrel-chested geography.
Will didn't zip it all the way. He left the collar flared open, and Miles’s eyes tracked the way the dark, silver-streaked curls of Will’s chest hair spilled out over the top of the tank top, framed by the industrial blue of the collar.
"Fits like a glove," Will murmured, stomping his feet into his boots and cinching the laces.
Miles couldn't help himself. His gaze drifted down. The suit’s adaptive weave was honest—perhaps a bit too honest—highlighting the powerful build of Riker’s legs and the heavy, unmistakable curve of his groin. In the dim, cool light of the cargo bay, the sight of Will Riker standing there, looking every inch the Commander again but without the cold distance of Starfleet, made Miles feel a dizzying rush of vertigo.
"Looks good on you, Will," Miles said, his voice a bit rougher than he intended. He quickly began pulling on his own matching suit, desperate to hide the way his heart was trying to kick its way out of his ribs. "Better than that Admiral’s gold ever did."
Will looked at him, those piercing blue eyes softened by a look that Miles couldn't quite place—was it recognition? Or just the shared warmth of two old sailors finding a port?
"It feels right, Miles," Will said, stepping closer until he was standing directly in front of the Irishman. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering just an inch from Miles’s shoulder. "Being back on a ship. Having a job to do. With you."
