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 donāt get this EPS manifold seated and the thermal shielding locked down, weāre 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 smirkāthe one that had charmed half the quadrants in the galaxyāand 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. Heād been the dutiful husband to Keiko, the harried father to Molly and Kirayoshi, the rock-solid NCO who kept the station running. Heād loved his family, truly, but there was a quiet, private room in his heart heād 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 Willāsilver-edged and undeniably handsome in the sweltering San Diego heatāMiles 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'?"
"Iām just checking to see if youāve 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 Milesās as he gripped the lead. "Iāve never been soft where it counts, Chief. You know that."
The proximity was agonizing. Miles could smell the salt air on Willās skin, mixed with the faint, nostalgic scent of the sandalwood soap heād 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 Pulaskiās 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.
"Godās teeth, thatās 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 codeā0-7-1-0, his old engineering IDāand 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 Klingonās 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 Rikerās specific, barrel-chested geography.
Will didn't zip it all the way. He left the collar flared open, and Milesās eyes tracked the way the dark, silver-streaked curls of Willās 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 suitās adaptive weave was honestāperhaps a bit too honestāhighlighting the powerful build of Rikerās 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 Admiralās gold ever did."
Will looked at him, those piercing blue eyes softened by a look that Miles couldn't quite placeāwas 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 Milesās shoulder. "Being back on a ship. Having a job to do. With you."
