Mark shoves his way into the next room, where Weaver is treating Cheek. Cheek seems to be fine; he's awake and isn't even that bloody. Mark confronts him about the confessed game of Russian Roulette. "What?!" Weaver demands. Second base! Mark repeats the charge and Cheek claims, "It was his idea." Mark snaps, "How old are you?" "Why?" Cheek brats. Mark guesses that Cheek is twenty, and Cheek admits to being nineteen. Weaver tells Mark that she's on it, but Mark is having none of it: "He's fifteen years old! He's drunk! I could smell the alcohol across the room!" Cheek snaps, "He came over that way!" "You didn't give her anything to drink?" Mark asks. Weaver turns to stare at Mark. "Who?" Cheek asks. First base! "Your friend!" Mark says. Cheek says that Gunshot brought a case of beer, along with his dad's gun. "And you made him hold the gun up to his head," Mark squeaks. "I didn't make him do anything! Hell, I went first," says Cheek. "It was his idea but you went first," Mark snorts. Cheek replies, "Yeah! Better odds!" Mark actually advances on Cheek, bellowing, "'Better odds'?!" Cheek nonchalantly points out, "That's the point of the game." Mark sputters, "It's not a game! She blew his brains out!" "Who's 'she'?" Cheek calmly asks. Mark doesn't understand the question, and Cheek repeats, "You said 'she.'" Mark impatiently yells, "He. He's dead!" And, actually...is he dead? Gunshot seemed to be alive enough to have medical personnel working on him when Mark abandoned his trauma room. Cheek sniffs that Gunshot "loaded the bullet. He knew what could happen." Mark impotently asks, "Where are the police, huh? Why aren't they arresting this idiot?" He throws the piece of paper onto Cheek's bed. "I didn't kill him," Cheek says -- not seeming at all concerned at the news that Gunshot is dead. "The hell you didn't," Mark scoffs, and flounces off. I gather that all that was by way of showing us that, post-surgery, Mark is uncharacteristically belligerent, as well as experiencing aphasia (transposing his pronouns), but if you ask me, Mark's always been an insufferably sanctimonious pill.
After the trauma, Mark walks out of the bathroom and runs into Elizabeth. He cheerfully asks her if she called the time of death on Gunshot, and she says she did, "after six units of blood and forty-five minutes of CPR." She exhaustedly adds, "I should never have started." Mark condescendingly says, "You wanted to make sure." "Rubbish. You would have called it from the beginning," she tells him. Mark agrees that he would have: "But I'm lazy." Elizabeth curtly says, "Mark, please," and sets her jaw. Okay, Elizabeth? Hates Mark. Hates him. It's so clear. She can't stand being around him. His very presence annoys her. Now that he's made it through his tumour she wishes she'd left him in New York -- preferably in the East River. She can't even stand to look at him. And when he tries to reassure her by saying, "You wanted to give it a chance. It's no big failure," it only has the effect of sending her back upstairs and away from him and his platitudes. She makes a token effort to care by distractedly asking whether he's "taking it easy," to which he replies, "Yes, Mom."