A/N: Wheeee! I'm sugar high! So if that explains a lot… ;-) French translations are at the end of the chapter.

Disclaimer: No. I'm not Victor Hugo. And I don't own the copyright of Les Mis. I own the CD, and a tattered copy of the book, and the DVD of Les Mis in concert, and… uh… hmmm. What was I saying?

"Forgive me all my trespasses and take me to your glory," Jean Valjean murmured quietly. A final prayer for a pious man.

"Non! Arrêtez- vous mademoiselle! Qui est-ce ton fait?"*

The three looked up in surprise. Jean Valjean even stopped dying for a moment.

"Zut, alors! Il est mon livre ! J'ai écrie le ! Ne touche pas ! Arrêtez- vous! C'est mon… oof."** There was a loud sound from above their heads, as if someone had fallen very painfully to the ground. They all jumped. Marius even graciously fell out of his chair onto the ground, leaving Cosette to suddenly shift chairs.

"What…?" Cosette asked. "Is, is someone trying to steal that man's book?" She looked at Marius and then at Jean Valjean in confusion. Marius glanced at the ceiling in bewilderment.

"I… don't know ma chérie. It sounds like that…." Marius stood and picked up a large rock that happened to be in his father- in- law's apartment for no apparent reason. He flung the rock at the ceiling. "Hey! Leave that man alone! We're in the middle of a death scene."

The man groaned. "Non… mon Dieu, laissiez mon chef- d'oeuvre… j'ai travaille dur dans le… s'il vous plais… non ! Mettez le stylo plume sur le bureau. Non, n'écrites pas ! Nooooooooon ! Mon chef- d'œuvre…."***

Jean Valjean began wishing that everyone in the garret above him would just shut up so he could die. He cleared his throat. "Forgive me all my trespasses-"

He was interrupted by the occupants of the garret above him yet again. This time it was maniacal laughter from a female. The three occupants of the garret looked around for another strategically placed rock.

"Mwahahahahahaha. Now my beloved Enjy can never die!"

Jean Valjean sighed. "Please just let me die. Fantine, take me to G-" Yet the poor man was interrupted again when the room began spinning.

"M-Marius?" Cosette ran to her husband, and they clutched each other protectively. Jean Valjean mustered his strength and rubbed his eyes.

"Papa, the room…." Just then there was a bright flash of light and what seemed like the whole of Paris appeared in Jean Valjean's apartment.

Jean Valjean blinked, but immediately saw Fantine, who was standing next to him. "Ah, all right. I'm dead now. Farewell, Cosette, Marius… Fantine, if you could lead me to salvation… I'd like to see my friend the bishop again."

"Ah, monsieur, I'm not so sure… I think… I'm… alive again." Fantine, looking better then she had before she died, poked herself in the hand several times. "I'm, I'm alive! What's going on?"

"Papa, who are all these people? Who is that woman?" Cosette glanced around the crowded room. "Why… how… what…?"

Jean Valjean sat up straight. "Cosette, you can see them too?"

"And I too," Marius added helpfully. "Wha… Courfeyrac? Enjorlas? Grantaire? What… you're all dead! You died on the barricade! I, I saw you!"

"So did I," Jean Valjean interjected. "Have we all died?"

Fantine pinched herself helpfully and yelped. Loudly. "No, we're alive… and Cosette! You're married. Who is this young man?"

"Marius. Marius Pontmercy," Cosette informed her rather befuddledly. "Who are you and why do you know my name?"

"I'm your mother, Fantine," Fantine explained gently.

"My mother? I'm afraid I don't understand…." Cosette's blue eyes widened. "Papa! Is this who you were telling me about before you died and then the man upstairs got robbed and all these people appeared in your room?"

Just then the revolutionaries, who seemed rather dazed and slumped over, seemed to awake. And you could be sure they'd have strange reactions (which the authoress was rather counting on… *innocent grin*).

The first was Jean Prouvaire. "Is this heaven?" He glanced around. "It's sparser then I had imagined. And, oh, hello Marius. Did you die too?"

Marius shook his head. "No… actually, you're still in Paris."

"But I could've sworn I'd died in front of that firing squad! They shot me."

"I thought you were dead too…."

Jehan burst into tears. "I was dead! The final, blissful sleep of oblivion was mine, as was the tragic fate of martyrdom! And what of my poor flowers? Did someone water them?"

"Oh, dear! By heab urts orribly. Anb I'm still congested. I mus be ill again," Joly declared soon after regaining consciousness. He quickly pulled out a small mirror and began inspecting his tongue. "Lagle, oo I ook ick?"

Boussuet looked around in confusion. "Weren't we dead? Well, I guess being alive is rather fortunate…." He rubbed his bald head bemusedly.

"Wine-cask, off my feet. I can't move." Enjorlas vainly attempted to move Grantaire who was either unconscious or pretending to be. Enjorlas shot him a glare that failed to move the drunkard.

Courfeyrac rubbed his eyes and soon noticed Fantine. "Ah, heaven. It must be so, if I see angels such as yourself, mademoiselle."

"That's my mother- in- law Courfeyrac," Marius protested. Cosette clutched Marius's shirt and began muttering something about divine intervention.

"God, haven't I repented enough?" Jean Valjean mused aloud. "What did I do to deserve such punishment?"

"Hunh. I dreamed I died. Or perhaps I'm dead. Can one tell if one's dead? Plato never said anything about it, but then of course Plato hadn't died when he wrote so he cannot be relied upon. And if one is dead does one enter perfect civilization? Hmmmm…." Combeferre was awake. And musing.

"Am I in Poland?" Feuilly asked hopefully.

Bahorel jumped to his feet and reached for his, missing, gun. "Ha! We will never surrender! You miss- ah? Where's the barricade?" He quickly let loose a stream of, ah, very interesting adjectives that made Cosette gasp in surprise and Fantine look as if she wanted to slap him.

"I swear it was the fault of-" Gavroche sang. "'Ello? Wasn't I shot?"

"I'm so glad we're all dead," Eponine continued. "And thank you Monsieur Marius… oh, hello. I was dead, or so I thought…."

"Wine-cask, off my feet. You were not even remotely helpful in the revolution, by the way. Now move! Or are you as drunk as usual?" Enjorlas attempted to stand up using the wall.

"I'm ill! I'm drebfully ill! I expect I'll die soon." Joly pulled out a small medical dictionary and attempted to diagnose himself.

"We were all," and here Bahorel used a very interesting string of words that shall never be repeated as it offended everyone in the room, "dead, but somehow we're not. Care to explain it good philosopher?"

Combeferre looked very puzzled. "Or was it Socrates? Jehan, do you remember? I think it must've been Socrates, but it might've been a more recent philosopher…."

"So, my darling, what's your name?" Courfeyrac, undaunted by the fact that he was now flirting with his old roommate's mother- in- law, inquired suavely. "Mine is Courfeyrac."

"Who are you?" Fantine asked. She glanced at Marius, who was in a state of shock, and her daughter, who was now clutching her husband's cravat and was praying desperately.

"Let me die," Jean Valjean moaned in agony. "All I wanted was a quiet death in my cold, empty garret… am I too much of a sinner to even be granted that?"

"Well, I swear, 'tis the fault of Voltaire," Gavroche began singing again.

"What? Why aren't I dead? I escaped from the world of- no, you're still alive 24601!" Javert stood up. "I'm in hell for committing suicide. I knew it. It was against the law."

"Grantaire, move! I need to get everyone quiet!"

"Has anyone seen my fan? I wrote Poland on it…." Feuilly began searching his pockets desperately.

"Achoo! Oh, no! I'm dying again. I'b sure I'b leaking brain lubricants!" Joly flipped through his medical dictionary again.

Boussuet looked rather confused.

"Monsieur Marius? Thanks for the kiss, by the way. It was kind of you. Thanks." Eponine grinned at him. Marius noticed she was missing several teeth.

"Marius, you kissed… and who… oh, dear. I'm sorry. Who are you?" Cosette looked at Eponine. "You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago… Marius, what?" She glanced at her husband, who seemed just as, if not more confused then Cosette.

There was a sudden sound of maniacal laughter from the garret above them and the man screaming.

"Merde! Vous, vous, vous tueur de classiques ! Je déteste vous."****

"Someone is attacking literature!" Combeferre looked appalled at the very thought.

"I hope it's not the Latin classics," Jehan muttered to himself, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Men! That man is in trouble! As he is certainly a member of the republic as surely as you or I- get off my boot you lazy drunkard- and he deserves our help!" Enjorlas had somehow managed to stand and was attempting to get to Jean Valjean's table, presumably so that he could stand on it and make inspirational songs regarding revolution and colors. Grantaire was still fast asleep on Apollo's boot.

"Stop! This is a direct violation of the law!" Javert cried desperately. "La republique has been outlawed. The monarchy reigns."

"Bonaparte?" Marius suggested, not wanting to have to leave his political views out of the discussion.

"Is dead!" Enjorlas thundered. "As is the antiquated monarchy!" Enjorlas shook his foot. "Now let go of my boot, you fool." Grantaire, rather surprisingly, woke up and rolled off Enjorlas's foot. "The republic lives long after we are dead!" Enjorlas cried, searching desperately for his nifty red flag.

"Which we were supposed to be," Grantaire mused. "Wasn't I shot by a firing squad? Ah well, I suppose I had too much absinthe again."

"Zut alors," fumed the man in the garret upstairs. Everyone fell silent as there came several sounds of banging doors and people thundering down the stairs.

"All I wanted was to die in peace," Valjean muttered, still rather put out that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to die currently. He then felt very guilty for such thoughts and began praying.

The door to Jean Valjean's apartment sung open and was slammed shut. An elderly man with a full white beard was leaning against the door.

"Merde," he murmured to himself.

No one seemed to know what was going on. And they all looked rather confused. And in strange positions. And because the authoress of this fic is a crazed Les Mis fanatic on a sugar high, she will describe what each and every one of them was doing. Enjorlas was in the middle of twisting around to look for a flag, while Grantaire was leaning on the table in a bit of stupor. Javert, on the other side of the table, was attempting to arrest Enjorlas for disturbing the peace. Cosette and Marius were still clinging to each other, looking quite confused and more then a little terrified. Eponine, looking jealous, was sitting in a chair next to Marius. Gavroche was standing in the middle of the room, stopped mid-verse. Jean Valjean looked rather dead on his bed, and Fantine was standing next to the bed looking befuddled and rather put out by the fact that Courfeyrac was attempting to flirt with her. Combeferre was by the table in the act of polishing his glasses, while Jehan, sitting next to the philosopher, was clutching his handkerchief. Joly had been flipping through a dictionary, and Boussuet was looking rather tired. Bahorel had been in the act of opening the window and shouting at the innocent passerby that their unwillingness to cooperate had cost them the revolution and that he would shoot them all as soon as he found a pistol. And the poor elderly man in the black suit with a strange, starched white collar seemed to want to cry.

Valjean was the first to speak. "Well monsieur, are you all right? We heard shouting from your garret. Did someone steal your books? And can we be of any help to you?"

The man closed his eyes and reopened them. Yep. Same revolutionaries in same position. Same newlyweds clinging to each other. Same old man on a bed. Same front-toothless mother looking rather confused. Same crazed inspector trying to arrest insurgents. Same gamin about to sing. Same gamine looking sadly at the newlyweds.

The man had no words. Well, actually he did. The authoress just thought that that was a nifty little phrase. And the old man in the black suit had to take a minute to compose himself and collect his thoughts. You see, he kept them in his pockets and he had a bunch of pockets in his suit.

"Oh, merde. It's happened." Hmmm… the elderly man thought. I could have phrased that better. And added some text about the Battle of Waterloo and the poor conditions of the city streets in Paris. Not to mention mentioning some random minor characters that I will never use again. Oh well. Too late. I can always include it in my new book.

"Excuse me, monsieur," Cosette inquired softly. "But what's happened?"

"Pardon my language, mademoiselle," the man apologized quickly. "My name is Victor Hugo. I am an author, of sorts. I enjoy writing about the less fortunate of Paris and the government-"

"Corrupt monarchy!" Enjorlas shouted, simply because he was Enjorlas and that was the sort of thing fanatical revolutionaries who wore red vests did.

Victor Hugo nodded. "Well, yes. And Louis Napoleon. Such an odious fellow. He made life zut near impossible. I had to flee to the isle of Jersey. And then Guernsey. Vive la constitution."

Everyone in the room was mystified and/or incredibly confused at his words due to the fact that these events had not happened yet.

"Ahem. But I digress. You see, after publishing several volumes of poetry, receiving several awards, and writing many satires as well, I decided to write something I called, 'Les Misérables,' a story about the poor and terribly unfortunates living in France."

"Poetry?" Jehan questioned, looking interested.

"Yes! Poetry! Giving words to the movement of the heart… and putting into words the feelings that encompass a man for a lifetime onto a single sheet… several sheets of paper. Ah the power of words and the thirsty souls who greedily drink poetry until they are full of love and words!" Monsieur Hugo looked rather pleased with himself. "In school I won numerous awards and got many-"

Joly sneezed. "I'm dying! Please urry up so I can ear whab you ab to say before I die. Painfully."

"Ah… sorry. But you see, I wrote a novel focusing on the life of one Jean Valjean and how his life was changed the Bishop of Digne, who coincidentally is one of my more illustrious ancestors… no, wait, I made him up, but I can claim that in my book."

Valjean paled. "H-how do you know about my life? I regret some of the things I have done, but how did you find out so much about me?"

Monsieur Hugo tugged on his starched collar. "Ah… it's because you aren't real."

*No! Stop, miss! What are you doing?

** D-mn it all! It's my book! I wrote it! Don't touch it! Stop! It's my… oof.

*** No… my God, leave my masterpiece… I worked hard on it... please… no! Leave the quill on the desk. No, don't write! Nooooooooo! My masterpiece….

**** Sh-t! You, you, you murderer of the classics! I hate you.