Not So Prince Charming

'Quick, call Doctor Who, Perigna's heir has fallen ill'

This is probably the best Phil's ever slept. In fact, scratch that, there's no doubt about it at all.

He finds no need to hysterically scream, nor does he body slam his alarm clock with the intent of destroying humanity. Actually, there's really no need to do anything at all, or so he likes to think, rather lazily, to himself.

He fidgets about happily for a couple of minutes, taking the much needed time to stretch out his legs contentedly. Purring loudly to himself, Phil reaches half-heartedly for his phone. It takes a good, few attempts to grab it, and when he finally does, he opens one eye reluctantly to look at the time.

13:07pm, it says.

Nice, Phil thinks stupidly to himself. Good on you for getting a lie in, mate. Remind me, why don't we do this more often?

Shaking his head slowly, still half-asleep, Phil attempts to throw his phone back on the coffee table, misses, and waves his hand about, as thought to say, it doesn't really matter, before settling himself back down again.

It takes him much longer than it should to recognise where it is he's sleeping, exactly.

One moment he's asleep, the next, he's sat upright. Beyond baffled, Phil eyes his current sleeping arrangement suspiciously, all the while thinking, wait, what? to himself.

Since when - he narrows his eyes, brows already furrowed in puzzlement - has Phil ever slept in his strange, and oddly stained, lounge/kitchen/dining room hybrid? And why on earth was he sleeping on this god-awful sofa, the one with the bothersome lumps found in the most unusual of places? As a matter of fact, Phil finds himself musing over how he managed to sleep so well in such bad conditions, not to mention how he had forgotten to take his usual, crappy sleeping tablets last night.

With all factors in mind, it would appear that the world is ending, or so Phil concludes unenthusiastically, still recovering from an unanticipated, good night's sleep. What doesn't register with him, nor his conspiracy theories, however, is the uneasy, almost sinking feeling that is pitted against his stomach, like that you get when you know you've messed up badly.

While Phil is no stranger to this feeling - he has, after all, forgotten to pay his electricity bills on numerous occasions before today, and Phil would be cheating humanity if he failed to mention all the times he had left his oven on in the past year, alone - this seems far more severe, which leaves Phil to muse over a terrible thought: what on earth could possibly be worst than leaving your oven on?

In truth, Phil is not one for conflict: never has been, never will be, most likely. Just look at yesterday with Gilbert. It still makes him feel queasy to think of it, even now. And so, when faced with such fear, such bother - especially so soon after feeling unusually at peace - Phil's immediate response is to hide under his makeshift blanket, which he proceeds to do. After all, the world is a scary place, and not something that Phil wants to confront anytime soon; not today at least, if at all possible.

But that doesn't stop him from feeling exceptionally uneasy, and it does very little to shake off the building sensation of apprehension, as though he expects someone to suddenly jump out at him, equipped with horrible things like responsibilities and cheese. No, no, Phil would much prefer to stay here in bed - or couch, or whatever definition this piece of crap fitted.

Seriously though, why was he here?

And then it hits him, and he's immediately astonished at how he could have forgotten something so major, so life changing.

The conference with the prince, you know, Perigna's very own heir. The one that, just yesterday, he had promised to attend and to report on for Gilbert.