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They lie together on the floor of the studio after the show's over. They're going to get kicked out soon, but right now the crew's still putting away puppets and picking up the shredded question cards, so they have a little while.

"God, I need to get out of here," says Peter.

"Out of the set?" asks Craig. He folds his hands together over his stomach and stares at his feet.

"No, no, out of America. Everyone knows I used to do drugs, now. They're probably coming to arrest me as we speak."

"I talk about having done drugs all the time," points out Craig. He shifts his gaze to Peter's feet, lying next to his. "I wrote a whole book about how I used to do drugs. No one's ever given me any trouble."

"No, that's because you're one of them, see?" Peter shifts his feet away. He always was insecure about them. "You're an American citizen now, they can't touch you. Famous television host."

"Don't be stupid," says Craig. "Look at this place. No one watches my show. Yeah, hey," a thought occurs, "no one will know about the drugs. Don't you worry."

"So modest," says Peter, but he lets it slide. "Stop staring at my feet."

"You need your pointy shoes back," says Craig, inanely. This is so fucking weird, having Peter here in the studio, just lying on the floor like they're back in Glasgow at Craig's tiny flat.

He feels a little stoned, too. It probably showed at the close, but he can't bring himself to care. No one will notice a difference from normal, really.

They've both been clean for years, too. Well, Craig is clean. God knows what Peter has in that magician's coat of his.

"I really hope we're not still tripping," says Peter, echoing Craig's thoughts. "You've put that idea in my head, and now I keep expecting to turn around a be an underfed punk freaking out on your floor."

"Wouldn't it be grand to be young, though?" asks Craig. "Our whole lives ahead of us?"

"Absolutely not," says Peter. "I, for one, do not want to go through all that again."

"I could pick up where I left off with the drums," muses Craig, lost in his vision. "I was good, wasn't I?"

"Craig, you could go back to drumming now." Peter sits up a little to look over at him. "Don't give me all that about pissing yourself. You just know you've got a good thing going here, successful television man." He subsides again, lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Look who's talking," says Craig, smiling. "Mister Sweary Man himself."

"God, don't call me that," says Peter. His lips twist into that weird sneering smile he's always had. "You know, people come up to me in the street and ask me to bawl them out? It's ridiculous."

"Well, what do you tell them?"

"To fuck off," admits Peter. "It makes them happy. But, no, it's you, you're the Sweary Man. Rude words on American television, don't they get after you about that?"

"They'll just bleep it out in the edit," says Craig, waving a hand airily. "Fancy technology."

"Oh, it's not live, then," says Peter, with a glint in his eye. "And here was me, thinking I had jumped forwards in time as soon as I entered your studio."

"Ah, I misspoke, my son," says Craig. "You go out there it'll be the wee hours of a new California day. Don't let anyone tell you different."

"Mister Ferguson." One of the staff bends over them, apparently torn between amusement and annoyance. "We need the set."

"Right, sorry," says Craig, and struggles up. He is getting old, he can tell in the way his knees hardly bend anymore. "Looks like you ought to get going after all, Pete."

"Yeah, I suppose," says Peter. He holds out a hand to be helped up, and Craig takes it. Peter's so fucking skinny that it's not even a bit of a strain to haul him off the floor.

"Well, take care of yourself," says Craig.

"You too," says Peter.

They hug before Peter leaves. It's more comfortable this time, not like the awkward stage hug they'd shared before. Craig can feel himself coming down from the taping at last.

He stands in the darkened studio for a minute longer before the assistants kick him out. Stiff knees and a successful network show, and his old friends doing well for themselves.

Hell, maybe growing up was worth it after all.

Craig whistles one of his old band's tunes between his teeth as he goes home, but in the end all he can remember is the drum part. So he taps that out on the side of the car instead.