A circus AU, of sorts

The Amazing Starsky

by Allie

David Starsky arrived at the big top as it was being set up. He held a bag over his shoulder, and looked around cautiously. His eyes were drawn, inexorably, towards the sight of a man dwarfed by a bear, training it. He shuddered a little, and moved on, his steps quickening, hurrying to find the man in charge.

He'd grown up in the circus, and always, finding a new circus was like coming home again. The smells and sounds were so often the same, the oddness and privateness and yet the comradeship of the people it drew, and the danger and even the foods.

Delicious-smelling things cooked in private trailers. Junk food stands were set up nearby, to sell to circus patrons, and to tempt Starsky just as they'd done when he was young. Sausage fried with onion and peppers—it brought a whole new level of joy to his taste buds, familiar as love and grief, unnamable, irresistible, joyous and bittersweet.

He'd first had a treat of this fair-food, open-air fried sausage and vegetables, when he was just a little boy. It was a treat for his hard work on the high wire, something to be savored and treasured. Like the days when he could sit on his father's shoulders and be as tall as a giant and see the world, it was a good memory with painful parts, but irresistible all the same.

His mouth watered now at the smell, but he walked past resolutely, marking out the stand for later.

Starsky had been working circuses more or less since the day of his birth. First he'd grown up in a circus family—The Amazing Starskys—a high wire act. Then, when he was older he'd done a number of things—assembly, animal care, even been a barker and juggler. He could do lots of things. The one thing he would never do was high wire stuff. He wouldn't even watch it. Starsky's nerve, for that, was completely gone—had left him one day when he was nine years old, a little prodigy—and his father had had that accident. The prodigy had never been on the high wire again, and had grown up, old, and obscure.

He found the headman at last, and introduced himself. The man, Mr. Keeves, was in far too much of a hurry to do more than shake hands and point him in the right direction. There were plenty of things to be set up, animal cages to be cleaned, and security precautions to be checked. He'd work closely with a man surprisingly named Huggy Bear. When he met Huggy Bear, the friendly man pulled him into a friendly bear hug. He couldn't have resembled a bear less, however. He was tall and skinny.

David got to work right away, learning the peculiarities of this specific circus from Huggy's rolling, friendly commentary. He had a feeling Huggy was keeping a sharp eye on him as well, to see how he did, especially with safety precautions, but he knew circuses; he passed the tests. And Huggy had a lot to tell him.

"That man, over there. He works with the larger animals—that bear, the lion."

"Lions and bears?" asked Starsky. "Oh my." He grinned at his own joke.

Huggy slapped him on the back. "That's right, my man. One of each! His name's Hutch."

"What, the man or the bear?"

"The bear is Coconut."

"C-coconut?" asked Starsky, trying not to laugh.

Huggy shrugged. "Likes to eat it."

"Picky bear!"

"Nah, just spoiled. But it's best that way, you know. Hutch says if you want a bear to work well, you gotta keep it fed and happy. A hungry bear is a mean bear, and this one—well, it wasn't the happiest bear in the world before our Hutch got a hold of it." Huggy looked a mingled expression of pride and sadness. He shook his head. "They both got some scars," he added cryptically.

Starsky felt his eyes widen, and swallowed nervously. "They injured each other?"

"No," said Huggy, "not like that. Different kinda scars. Now this here is the net, the one for catching high wire acts."

Starsky gulped, and said he knew and moved on quickly, and the bear and his keeper were soon forgotten.

That night he lay exhausted and muscle-sore, but content with his hard work. He was sharing a tiny trailer with this "Hutch" character. His was the only extra space, and, after a slight discussion with the headman and a frown in Starsky's direction, the light-haired Hutch had apparently taken pity on Starsky, so he wouldn't have to sleep on the ground or in the back of his car.

Hutch was letting him share the extra bunk for now.

"Top or bottom bunk?" asked Starsky politely.

"Uh, I sleep on the lower one," said Hutch, looking at him oddly, as if trying to understand him. "I don't like cracking my shins climbing down."

Starsky shrugged, as if it was all the same to him, but inwardly, he grimaced. He hated—HATED—heights. And even a bunk bed seemed high to him, these days.

Still, he'd clambered up, and he was sleepy enough to go to sleep while Hutch was still showering. It was good he did, for he'd come in smelling of large animals, a peculiar, strong smell.

He was humming to himself, and the faint hints of a tune followed Starsky into sleep, where the net reached up to grab him, and then fell away at the last moment, leaving him to hit the ground, screaming. Falling just like his father had done. Except his father hadn't made a sound. Not a sound….

Then the bear was dancing a slow, ponderous, hungry-looking dance towards him, grim intent in its gleaming, beady little eyes. Its face was covered in scars, and the blond man advanced by its side. His face was covered in scars, too.

Starsky tossed restlessly, opening his mouth to say something. A hand caught his arm, and shook. Starsky jerked awake, bumping his head on the low ceiling as he sat up, and making a sound that was embarrassingly like a yip of terror.

Hutch stood by the bunk, his hair damp, his expression awkward, embarrassed and uncertain. "Sorry. You sounded like you were having a bad dream."

"I was. Thanks," gasped Starsky. No reason to start off on a bad foot with this man!

Hutch shrugged, and moved towards the bottom bunk. It creaked as he settled, and the trailer seemed to settle too, as if letting out a sigh of relief that its owner was now resting for the night.

"Hope you don't dream so loudly all the time, or we'll both be up a lot."

"I don't. We won't. Hey, is your bear… safe?" asked Starsky. "I didn't see a chain on him…."

"Her." Hutch's voice held a prickly sound that it hadn't earlier. "And I don't chain them. Ever."

Starsky made a face at the ceiling, feeling rebuffed and grumpy. "Sorry," he said sort of grumpily. "How should I know that?" He rolled over, making the bunk creak again. He'd be glad when he could afford his own little trailer and have some privacy!

Below, Hutch sighed and shifted as well. "No, you're right. I'm sorry. I'm protective of the animals, but you have no way of understanding what Coconut—my bear—has gone through."

"What?" asked Starsky, fascinated and worried in spite of himself. "You don't have to tell me," he added in the next breath.

"Oh. Her old owners used to starve her and beat her so she'd perform," said Hutch in a far-away voice somehow flat of emotion. "Broke her nose twice, as punishment. She was set to be put down for being vicious when I bought her. She's mine, not the circus's, by the way. We—got to trusting each other. I never chain her or hit her, and she performs for me if I ask her to, and for treats—not because she's starved, but because bears are the world's biggest gluttons, and they love to eat constantly."

Starsky didn't know what to say. "That's awful," he said. Broken noses? Starvation? Beatings? Starsky didn't like bears—hated them, in fact; they terrified him. But he didn't think you should treat animals that way. Performing animals were supposed to make people laugh. You couldn't laugh and feel happy if you knew an animal was being hurt for you. You just couldn't.

"Yeah," said Hutch in a low husky voice. "It is." Then he rolled over again and Starsky had the feeling no more words from him were wanted.

#

He found his way among the circus people with hard work and unfailing good humor. Starsky had learned to get along with people at an early age, and he maintained a smile for everyone he possibly could. He also gained a little weight from all the sausages and funnel cakes and cotton candy he was eating. But he was working really hard, so it wasn't too much.

Now he had to save up money for a trailer—he'd had some unexpected car repair expenses on his way to join the circus, and his funds from his last job were depleted. In that job, he'd bunked with family friends, paying a little bit of rent and reveling in the friendly circus family atmosphere he got to live in.

With Hutch, he struggled to maintain quiet enough footsteps and not to disturb this private, rather prickly man. Only about his animals did Hutch seem to open up, though he was always unfailingly polite since that first day had passed.

He didn't have any scars on his face, either—Starsky checked. His bear did, though, Starsky saw when he got close enough to look at her clearly. He shuddered, and moved away. Hutch's scars, unlike in the dream, must be the inner kind.

Well, Starsky understood that. Everybody had those kinds of scars. He carried his privately as well.

The circus setup left him too busy for anything extra, exhausted at the end of each day, sometimes with barely enough time to shovel food down between jobs. But, eventually, the setup was complete, the circus was advertised heavily, the performers practicing like mad, and the animals preparing for their acts. And Starsky was able to wander around watching.

He was eating a caramel apple when he wandered past to watch Hutch and his bear. The bear's little eyes gleamed, not unlike the way they had in the dream, and it fell to all four paws (it had been balancing solemnly on two for Hutch a moment ago), and trundled towards Starsky.

Starsky ran. He wasn't aware that he had screamed, until he found himself at the top of the bleacher benches, trembling a little and closing his mouth. He was breathing hard, he'd dropped his apple, and the bear was devouring it happily on the ground.

"I'm sorry," said Hutch, sounding embarrassed and exasperated. "Coconut…" he admonished. But he let the bear finish the apple before leading her away. He put her back in a cage, rubbed her nose softly, and gave her a sticky bun.

Then he turned back to Starsky, looking awkward and embarrassed. Starsky, who had climbed down from the bleachers, felt much the same.

"I'm really sorry," said Hutch. "I've been trying to cure her of that. She loves all food, but candy apples are her biggest weakness."

"They are pretty tasty," agreed Starsky, trying to look calm and nonplussed—not like a man who'd ran screaming from a tame bear. He adjusted his shirt.

Hutch nodded. "You're all right?"

"Uh-huh."

"I can help you get over a fear of bears, if you want. Coconut is the perfect choice for it. She's actually the gentlest bear…."

"That's okay," said Starsky hurriedly. Hutch was looking at him far too closely, as if he could see inside to a few of Starsky's scars, as well.

"Well, that's all right. Let me know if you change your mind." Hutch reached out and tentatively gave him a pat on the arm.

"Uh—yeah. Thanks." Starsky gave him a pat back. "Maybe I'll buy her a candy apple of her own sometime, and let you give it to her."

Hutch smiled. "You could give it to her yourself. Make a friend for life."

"That's okay."

"Hey, let me pay you for that." He dug out his wallet and handed over some money—enough to buy two new ones.

"You don't have to—" Starsky raised his hands.

"I insist. She's my responsibility."

Hutch did insist, and Starsky told himself he'd use the extra to buy a treat for the bear. But certainly he wouldn't get close enough to give it to her himself!

#

The lion was worse. As scary as the bear was, he almost had a heart attack when he saw first Hutch wrestling with the lion. It was big rowdy with a sort of moth-eaten half grown beard for a mane. It looked inordinately proud of its growing strength. Starsky's heart was in his throat as he watched the man and the beast tumble about.

But Hutch was grinning, and scrubbed the lion's head with his knuckles affectionately, as if it were a large dog. And when the play was finished and he'd put the lion away for the day from his exercises, training, and play time, he walked over to Starsky with a spring in his steps, smiling, unharmed.

Starsky watched him approach. "Hey," said Hutch, giving him a smile.

"Hey," said Starsky. "Is that safe?"

"What? Jake?"

"You know what. The gigantic beast that almost mauled you to death."

Hutch laughed. "Nah, Jake likes to play, that's all! He's a good boy, really." He cast a fond look back at the lion, as though it were his great big housecat.

Starsky had no right to be worried, and he knew it; he was barely a friend, certainly not someone who had a right to say what Hutch could or could not do with his animals and his life. But all the same, he'd wanted to get out there and chase that lion away from his Hutch. Even though he was scared of lions, and he barely knew Hutch.

The large, quiet man had sort of invited Starsky into his life, though. Little as they needed to have to do with each other, they seemed to find themselves moving towards one another, checking in throughout the day with easygoing hellos and updates on what they were doing. Hutch gave casual explanations about his animals, with Starsky listening and trying to believe him, trying not to worry.

He'd long since given up not worrying, though, and since his father's death, he no longer trusted in the safety that people who did dangers jobs claimed to have. He worried about Hutch; incessantly.

In his dreams, the lion and the bear and other large, dangerous animals—and the high wire—seemed to congregate. Sometimes they came after Hutch, sometimes Starsky.

When Hutch was there, when the dreams got loud enough, he'd give the bunk a shake and waken Starsky—who would lie panting there in the dark.

Hutch more often than not switched on the light and took pity on him; they'd get up and talk or play cards, or read. Hutch never scolded him, and never made him feel funny for having bad dreams. He hadn't even demanded explanations.

He seemed, in his own way, protective of Starsky, watching over him with the circus people, seeing that he got a fair shake and wasn't treated as an outcast for being new. Though he had little to do with socializing, and seemed rather shy, Hutch was well-liked, and a word in their ear from him kept Starsky from being teased and harassed when it seemed to be starting.

One day Starsky trusted Hutch enough to finally, with some cajoling and lots of encouragement, put out a hand and touch the bear's fur. It was softer than he expected, like a furry rug. It felt nice. All the same he pulled back quickly, feeling shaken and shy.

But the proud smile Hutch gave him made him feel glad he'd done it.

They sat side by side that evening, playing a two-person game of monopoly with a half-busted set Starsky had bought at a yard sale. It only had half the cards for Chance and none of the little figures. He was using a small wrench, and Hutch a tooth his lion had lost when it was teething.

"Why are you so nervous around animals?" asked Hutch casually, concentrating on the game, hopping his lion's tooth to land on the Just Visiting section of Jail. He glanced at Starsky's face, and Starsky saw a friendly inquiry there, sympathetic and not mocking.

You had to give it to Hutch; he could be such a gentle guy. Starsky hadn't felt so safe letting himself relax around another person in a long time. Something told him Hutch wouldn't mock him.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," said Hutch, when Starsky's silence stretched.

"No," said Starsky. "I want." He grinned as he realized the truth of that statement. He wanted to trust Hutch with the things that troubled him.

"You know I was raised in the circus, right?" At Hutch's nod, he continued. "Well in the circus I grew up in, the animals weren't so nice. Or maybe their trainer wasn't so nice. They—they were kinda mean, Hutch. The lions and tigers and bears would lunge at their cages and snarl and growl at passersby. He liked to—to make 'em angry, so they'd—they'd seem fiercer, and so everybody would know only he could control 'em. And he had whips and things…" Starsky shuddered. "I was so scared of him and his animals. And his mean eyes, and those whips he carried. After my dad died, when I was scared of pretty much everything for a while, he—he threatened me once, I think he was just teasing in a mean way, but he scared me to death. He threatened to set his—his bear on me. I think I was distracted and didn't get out of his way fast enough. He made as if to open the cage, and looked at me with these scary eyes…"

He shook himself to chase away the tainted memory. "Everything seemed horrible back then, after my dad— Well, I, I didn't—I guess it just stuck with me. I really don't like bears, Hutch. And I'm not too fond of lions and tigers, neither." He looked at Hutch soberly. "But, I'm learning they're not all like that—scary, dangerous, and mean. It depends a lot on how you treat 'em."

He was relieved when he saw Hutch's gentle smile, looking proud of him. "That's right." He reached out and squeezed Starsky's arm. "I'm glad you're learning that. And I'm sorry he was so rotten. It really is people who make animals mean, I think…"

They played the rest of the game, talking sometimes about real things, sometimes just about the game.

Hutch won, but Starsky found he didn't even mind.

#

"Starsky, you're on animal cleanup today," ordered Harlow, the man in charge of giving out daily jobs to the people like Starsky, who didn't have a set one (and sometimes to those who did).

"But that's Hutch's—"

"He needs help today. Get busy." The man thrust a shovel into Starsky's hand.

Starsky went to the animal area, his heart sinking.

Hutch did indeed look harried. He was working with a horse, trying to get it to walk in a circle without rearing or shying.

Starsky leaned on the fence for a few moments, watching. When Hutch caught his eye, he called, "I didn't know you had a horse."

"I didn't. She's new." He glanced back at the horse who hurried to the other side of the ring, snorting and bobbing her head. Instead of taking a moment to eat grass like a normal horse would, she kept shaking her head and rubbing against the fence as if to push her bridle off.

"It's too soon," said Hutch sadly. "It's back to square one for her, or she'll be useless."

"What's square one? Isn't that pretty useless?"

"Well, at first. But without it there are no other squares." He turned to smile at Starsky. "Why are you here? Do you like horses?" He looked hopeful.

"No, Hutch. Not a fan."

"Oh."

"I was told to help with animal cleanup today." He lifted the shovel. "Where do you want me?"

"I'll move the lion and you can clean out his area. It needs it and I haven't had the time with the new horses."

"Horses? There are more than one?" He fell into step with Hutch.

"That's correct. I—I couldn't let them go," he said in a sad, rather guilty voice. "They were being sold for meat…"

"So… you bought untame horses for your circus act, because you felt sorry for them?" Starsky digested this information. "Can you afford it, I mean, feeding 'em, training 'em, shipping 'em around…?" He glanced at his friend, trying to understand the situation.

"No. But I can for a little while. If I can't tame them, maybe I can give them away, find them a good home where they'll be safe. It's obvious they haven't been. Maybe I can find them a 'Black Beauty' home to live out their lives in peace."

"Black Beauty. That's a horse story, right?" Starsky hadn't done much reading, except what was necessary for schooling. With the circus, there were always more interesting and immediate things to do.

"That's correct. It's a story about a horse and all the good things and bad things that happen to it. Mostly bad things. It's a classic, written a long time ago. In the end the horse is rescued by an old friend and given a safe place to life the rest of his life."

"That's good," said Starsky. "Do you—do you like horses, especially, Hutch? Or do you just love all animals?" He searched his friend's face, trying to understand.

"All," admitted Hutch. "I—I can't stand to see an animal hurting, if I can do anything to help."

"That's—that's a nice way to be, Hutch."

He thought about it while he cleaned out the stinky lion's cage.

He didn't want to let anyone hurt an animal, either. If somebody did and he saw, he'd try to stop them. But he wasn't like Hutch, where it was an obsession—where he'd seek out places to buy animals who weren't wanted, and work ceaselessly with damaged animals others had given up on. It was like Hutch HAD to do it, and Starsky had never felt that way about anything. He didn't understand that feeling. He almost envied it in some ways, and yet it seemed like a very hard and lonely way to live, trying to solve all the world's problems for animals.

After he cleaned up the lion's cage, he took a few minutes more to watch Hutch with his horses, trying to tame them. Hutch was gentle and patient, even though the horses were so very wild.

It made Starsky sad to watch the horses and how damaged they acted. But somehow watching Hutch made him feel glad inside, happy and secure. This was a man who, no matter how many scars he might have inside, didn't go around hurting. You would always be safe with a guy like him. Knowing that, and knowing that Hutch counted him as a friend, made him feel more settled and secure than he had in a very long time.

#

Starsky missed Hutch when he went away. Not only because he had to do more with the animals (though never the whole job; it was considered too much for one person, at least one person other than Hutch), but because he missed the steady presence of his friend.

For so long, Starsky had felt like a drifter, shying away from permanent attachments, moving through his life like the circus, here one day and gone the next. If he started to feel stifled or closed in, he simply packed up his few possessions and moved on. Sometimes he moved to another circus. Sometimes he tried to make himself a normal life, but it never lasted long. Always, restless, he traveled on.

For the first time since he was a little boy with an intact family, he was starting to feel like he belonged. And like he was glad to belong, and maybe always would. Was it this circus? Was it somehow special? Or was it just Hutch? Quiet, awkward Hutch, with his kind heart and gentle touch with animals.

Whatever the case, he missed Hutch when he was gone, as he sometimes was, to pick up animal feed or acquire some new rescued animal.

Today was one of those days. Hutch was buying horse feed, and Starsky well expected him to come back with some needy animal as well. He wasn't sure what: perhaps it would be a wild and dangerous jungle cat. Perhaps it would be something quite ordinary like a dog or cat he had to save.

Starsky was busy feeding the horses, wondering what the new animal would be, when he heard the commotion starting and people running to see what was going on. He finished forking out the hay and followed.

People crowded round the high wire area, shouting up and arguing about something. There were high screeching sounds over the din, animal-sounding, coming from high above. Gulping, he forced himself to look up. Something small and brown with a long tail leaped around at the top of the wire, screaming.

"What's going on?" he asked Huggy Bear, finding and nudging him.

"Somebody dropped a monkey off, and it got out of its box."

"What's it for? A new act?"

"It was supposed to be. It appears to be useless."

Starsky glanced around the crowd again, and his spine prickled. "That—that man has a gun. Why does he have a gun?" It was a small gun, a .22, but Harlow was wielding it as though he meant to use it.

"They're thinking of shooting it." Huggy shrugged. "It's a shame, but there's no other way of getting it down. Good thing Hutch isn't here. He'd have a fit."

"But—you can't shoot it," said Starsky.

"It already tried to bite the high-wire guy when he tried to get it down. The thing isn't safe. What else can we do?"

Starsky thought of that little screeching creature falling all the way down. He thought of Hutch, his heart just too big, mourning yet another animal that he couldn't save.

Starsky said, "I'll get it."

"You? You can't."

Some scoffed, some ignored him. Starsky paid none of them any mind.

He was shaking a little as he took off his shoes and began to scale the rope ladder.

It was, after all, just like riding a bike. His muscles remembered how to do it. Inside him somewhere was still the brave and dramatic young boy who had grown up with heights and loved them, a Starsky to his core, never afraid. The adult Starsky could only handle it by taking each step one at a time, and only looking up. After a time he began to near the top, and he started calling shakily for the monkey.

It didn't come, of course. That would be too easy.

No, Starsky had to bite his lip and begin the harrowing step out onto the high wire. He hated this. Hated and loved it. Memories rushed back—how his father had died, but also memories he'd thought he lost forever: father and son, performing together, on top of the world, fearless. Terror mixed with remembered joy.

Starsky told himself there was nothing to fear now, because there was a net underneath. He couldn't possibly die no matter what. His yammering heart didn't believe it, but his feet did; they went forward just as they ought, just as they used to.

There was the monkey up ahead, clinging to the middle with its four little hands and feet, whipping its furry tail around the wire and trying to keep its balance. Starsky walked halfway down the wire. As if in a dream, he bent down with impeccable balance and reached for the monkey.

It bit his finger, sharp and deep.

Starsky jerked away and wobbled on the wire. The monkey screeched and clung tighter to it. Starsky held his hands out for balance, terror and pain making his vision blacken and blur.

I can't faint. I cannot faint.

The monkey looked up at him with a terrified little face, screeched once more, and then flung itself at him, ran up his leg and chest and clung to his head, its tail wrapping around his neck like a tight scarf.

Starsky choked a bit and swallowed hard. His neck crawled with the unfamiliar touch of the ferocious little animal. He kept his balance somehow and walked forward, to the other end and began the long climb down.

It seemed to take forever. The nervous, chittering monkey on his back didn't help, nor the throbbing of his bloody finger. The monkey had bitten him quite thoroughly and he bled a prodigious amount, his hand wet with blood and throbbing. Someone, he thought, feeling faint and a little giddy, would have to clean this ladder.

He climbed down yet another step—these endless steps—and his foot didn't find the next rung, but instead the ground.

He turned as if in a dream and they were staring at him, and he didn't know what to say or do suddenly. He had the very strong feeling that he was going to pass out.

"Starsky! Starsk!" a familiar, worried voice called. He turned in its direction and saw Hutch, pale and anxious, pushing through the crowd and towards him. "Starsky! They said you were climbing—"

"Uh-huh." Starsky reached up with his bleeding, throbbing hand and the other one and tried to pry the monkey loose. "Will you take the monkey, please?" His vision was black round the edges.

But the monkey, once situated, had no intention of leaving. It clung to Starsky's head as if he were its dearest friend and scolded everyone else quite loudly. It was really far too loud to be this close to his ears.

Hutch glanced at the monkey briefly, but his focus was all for Starsky.

Starsky wobbled a little, and big hands reached out and steadied him. "Come on, Starsk," he said quietly.

Starsky was led away, leaning against his Hutch, feeling the blackness wane and wax in his vision. Hutch was nearly carrying him.

He wrapped a handkerchief tightly around Starsky's bloody finger—it throbbed and felt twice as big as it should be—and kept up a steady and calming dialogue. Starsky couldn't have said what he talked about, but it was very comforting all the same. He leaned against Hutch, and let himself be brought into the trailer, and seated, and his hand tended.

He held his hand out, palm up on the table trustingly while Hutch tended him: pressure, disinfectant, bandaging. And all the time, that quiet voice that could gentle horses and bears kept him company. Hutch's hands were big, strong—and gentle.

Starsky closed his eyes and drifted. The monkey had stopped screeching, and he felt its tiny hands, oddly humanlike, sifting through his hair searching him for bugs. The monkey made a quiet, contented sound.

"And would you like a banana?" asked Hutch.

"No thank you," said Starsky.

"I meant him. Here you go." The monkey made a little churring sound and lunged. It was off Starsky. He opened his eyes and saw it settling on Hutch's shoulders. It held a banana in two little monkey hands, eating it with ferocious hunger, biting through the yellow skin with sharp teeth.

Hutch wore a grin of awe, of pure pleasure.

"You're welcome," said Starsky. "I knew you'd love him." And then he put his head down on the table and slept.

Even in his sleep, the sound of Hutch's quiet voice and the monkey's odd little replying noises followed him. It was a safe sound, a safe feeling.

Everything was going to be all right now, more than just about the monkey: about his whole life. Even in his sleep, he felt the deepest satisfaction he had felt in longer than he could remember. Hard as it had been, he'd conquered the heights, he'd saved the day.

And in his dreams, he saw his father again, the way he had longed to see him, the smiling conqueror on top of the world: the amazing Starsky.