INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON

The blinds are crooked, letting in slanted streaks of sun. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and bad coffee. Eric Dane sits up in bed, hospital gown loose at the shoulders, tape across his ribs, stitches pulling at his temple.

A knock on the door.

ERIC:
Who the fu-?

The door pushes open and Angus Skaaland steps in with two Styrofoam cups. He looks at Dane for a beat, the kind of look that says 'Christ, how are you’re still here?'

ANGUS: [deadpan]
You look like hell.

[Skaaland offers one cup to Dane.]

ANGUS:
Still better than I figured.

[He shrugs.]

ERIC:
You always know how to brighten a room.

Angus chuckles as he pulls a chair up beside the bed.

ANGUS:
I’d bring flowers, but they’d just die in here. Instead it's coffee and chicory, just the kind of hot mud you like.

They share a small smile.

ANGUS:
Been a while.

ERIC:
Yeah.

ANGUS:
…long while.

The air gets heavier for a second. Angus looks down into his coffee.

ANGUS:
A lot of us had to learn to swim after you fucked off to Christ knows where...

ERIC:
I know.

A small nod from Angus — not forgiveness, just acknowledgment.

They sit in the quiet for a moment, the only sound is the heart monitor ticking away. On the TV above, muted highlight reels flash — Ross swinging a chair, Graysie Parker holding up gold, the Birmingham skyline.

Angus glances at the screen, then back to Eric.

ANGUS:
The fuck happened out there? The old Eric Dane wouldn't have let a doofus like Chris Ross get the best of him. Nevermind twice! 

ERIC:
Yeah. Tell me something I don't know.

ANGUS:
You don’t bounce like you used to. None of us do.

ERIC:
Speak for yourself.

Angus gives him a look — amused, but not buying it.

ANGUS:
So… what now? ICW ain't gonna run itself.

ERIC:
It’s not going anywhere. Just needs someone to keep the seat warm.

A pregnant pause lingers momentarily.

ANGUS:
You've got fuckall, do you?

The Only Star shrugs.

ERIC:
You want it for a couple weeks?

Angus leans back in the chair, eyes narrowing just slightly.

A long silence sits on the air. Again.

ANGUS:
We’ll see.

It’s not coy, but it’s not a promise. They both know the history in those two words. Angus takes another sip, then sets his coffee down.

ANGUS:
Just… figure out what you’re doing, Eric. If you’re in this fight, be in it. If you’re not… get clear before Ross makes that choice for you.

Eric doesn’t answer right away. Just studies Angus, like he’s deciding how much to say.

ERIC:
I hear you.

Angus stands, smooths his jacket.

ANGUS:
Good. Don’t make me say it twice.

He starts for the door, pauses.

ANGUS:
It's good to see you.

ERIC:
Yeah. You too.

Angus takes his leave. Eric stares at the door for a long moment, then looks up at the TV again as Great Southern Trendkill flashes across the screen. His eyes stay fixed there.

FLASH

Cut.