The next day, Grant was at Coulson's door as the sun rose.

Coulson looked up sleepily. "You're up early. You okay?"

Grant grimaced in annoyance. "Fine. How do you feel?"

"Better," Coulson said.

"You look pale," Grant said bluntly. "More than yesterday."

Coulson shook his head. "The doctor says I'm doing better than yesterday. I'll be back on my feet in a few days."

Grant sat down at the very edge of the chair beside Coulson, though he was perched as if he was about to run off at a moment's notice.

"You sure you're okay?"

Grant nodded.

"Did you go to bed by eleven?"

He nodded again. "I didn't sleep much, though."

Understanding flashed across Coulson's face. "I see. Have you asked FitzSimmons to come over? I think you could use some cheering up."

"I'm fine," Grant said curtly.

"I can see that."

Grant scowled. "Fine. I'll go FitzSimmons and Skye." He stood and stalked towards the door.

"Grant."

He turned back towards Coulson, who was watching him with a knowing look in his eyes.

"I think we need to talk."

Grant slid back into the chair and folded his arms. "About what?" he asked, his tone much sharper than he had intended.

"I haven't been completely honest with you," Coulson said quietly. "And you have a right to be angry at me for that."

Grant narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"I told you yesterday that I was out of danger," Coulson began slowly, sighing at the look that flashed across Grant's face. "That wasn't quite true. There was some internal bleeding yesterday from wounds they hadn't discovered originally, and the doctors were…concerned."

"Then why the hell were you pretending everything was fine?" Grant snapped, shoving back his chair and stepping away from Coulson. "I'm not stupid. I could tell you felt like shit."

Coulson's mouth tightened into a line. "I know you're not stupid," he said. "But I didn't want you to worry."

"You got shot and you didn't think I would worry?" Grant snarled. "What the fuck"—

"Why are we yelling?" Nat interrupted. She was leaning against the doorjamb, surveying the scene calmly. "Phil?"

"Piss off," Grant spat at her, and she smiled slightly.

"Say it in Russian and maybe I will."

"Проваливай!"

"Bravo," she said. "Alright. I'm going. Grant, FitzSimmons are here, so you can come upstairs when you're done chewing out Coulson for trying to protect you."

Grant shot her a glare that would make anyone but Natasha Romanov flinch.

"Grant," Coulson said quietly, and the boy turned back to him, his face flushed and his breath coming quickly. "You're angry, and I know that. But you're not surprised."

Grant stared at him for a long moment, the anger dying out of his face.

"Were you—and Skye, I assume—listening yesterday?"

Grant bit his lip, and Coulson closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry that you found out like that," he said. "And I also expect you to remove whatever bug you and Skye put in this room. There are other mission-related conversations—private briefings and meetings—that are taking place here right now because of my injury, and I can't risk any recordings being made of those meetings. You understand?"

"The power source," Grant said suddenly, his eyes drilling Coulson's. "What is it?"

Coulson's hand snaked out and closed in a vise over Grant's arm as he yanked him forward. "Do not breathe a word of that," he hissed, an intensity in his face that Grant had not seen since Coulson had found out about Sitwell and Taksony. "You will get yourself and anyone who knows about it killed. Do you understand me?"

"But"—

"Do you understand me?"

Grant nodded, eyes wide, and Coulson's grip on his arm loosened as he relaxed back onto the hospital bed.

"Go upstairs, Grant," Coulson said wearily, closing his eyes as he sank into his pillows. "Go upstairs and see your friends and be pissed at me and make too much noise and give May hell and convince Steve to tell you his old war stories. Be a kid and not an agent today, okay? Hill and I have a lot to sort out."

"Dad"—Grant began, and then he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Coulson's face softened. "I know, kid. Me too."

"Can I come see you later?"

Coulson nodded. "I'm going to get some rest now—Dr. Simmons' orders—but you can bring your homework down here later and I can help you."

"I don't want to do homework," Grant growled. "Why can't I just come down and see you?"

Coulson grinned. "You won't do it unless Steve or I make you. I'll make sure Steve knows that you have to get it done before Skye can come over"—

"Fine," Grant said. "I'll bring my homework down tonight. Do you think Nat will let me spar with her and Clint tonight?"

"Yea, if you let the man get some goddamn rest," Natasha interrupted him, appearing in the doorway again. "Come on, kid. I've been waiting for the chance to kick your ass since I found out about Tijuana."

Grant made a face at her, but when he looked at Coulson, the man was scowling too. "Lay off my kid, Natasha," he ordered.

"Of course, boss," she said sardonically, but the look she gave Grant was good-natured. "Skye's here too. She'll want to spar."

"She wouldn't be Skye if she didn't," Grant grumbled.

Maria Hill entered as Grant and Nat were leaving, and she acknowledged them with a single nod. The door shut behind her and—

"Coulson," she said briefly. "The—package—is missing. Asgard."

"Thor?"

"I wish," she said, tossing a package onto his lap. "But. At least we have the gem."