Fortunately (well, unfortunately, really), Franz is too sick to really gauge much of Daedalus's tone, nor understanding exactly why he is being irritating. Illness apparently has the effect of making Franz particularly self-centered, it seems. Perhaps partly because whinging is a way to take out some of the helpless frustration he feels about this situation, and more so than that, the worry. From his lover's complaints as well as the news coverage he knew this illness was widespread, stretching tentacles to every corner of the city. Treatment was not going well, and more were falling ill every day. Fortunately, Franz is otherwise healthy, giving a better chance of fighting things off, but the risk is still there. The fear is still there.

He carefully picks up his glass of water and takes a long pull, flinching at how sore his throat is now. "Okay," he concedes, "But at least have him send some paperwork for me to look over between naps. He needs me."