Ladies and gentleman, this is a Scarlet Pimpernel story. Welcome. Though I love the book, this shall be based off the musical, which I like better. This thing is meant to take place sometime after Where's the Girl and before Armand gets arrested, just so you know, but that's not important, for very little, if any of it, will coincide with the musical. A word of warning: this will be heavily Chauvelin/Marguerite and it will stay that way. Percy will be mentioned, Percy will be in it a bit, Percy will not have Marguerite. That's just the way it is. Deal with it and flame me or leave and don't flame me. Yes. That is all.

Disclaimer: As much as I wish it, I do not own The Scarlet Pimpernel, any of it's adaptations, or any of the characters. That's it. Get reading.

Here Are Your Children. Welcome to Hell.

Chapter One: That's not Fat

A significant number of some large and significant things happened to Chauvelin over the past few days. So important were these things, that they changed the course of his entire life in such a way that he could never go back to the life he knew before.

This, Chauvelin knew. The trouble was, he couldn't for the life of him remember what they were.

He lay awake in his bed at the ungodly hour of 4:17 am and made an attempt to reflect on what happened the day before.

"Yesterday. Sunday. Woke up. Go clean. Chose Black Vest # 47 over Black Vest # 23. Went to the office. No executions." Chauvelin's thoughts came to an abrupt halt as this came to mind. "No executions, no executions. That is certainly unusual…why hadn't I noticed this yesterday?" He decided this was significant and settled on questioning Robespierre on this oddity later.

The rest of his memories of that particular day were a foggy mess labeled with large red letters, "Really Important Stuff."

This frustrated him. He couldn't remember a thing, and he was inclined to blame it on the disappointing lack of executions the previous day.

Chauvelin was angry and very confused.

Chauvelin had a terrible headache. He turned over and went back to sleep.

He woke up more comfortable then he'd been in years. He kept his eyes closed and buried his head deeper into his pillow. A hand was running through his hair. Strange.

He tightened his grip around his pillow in an attempt to fall asleep again. It let out a musical, feminine giggle. That, too, was odd. He paid it no heed.

Another hand cupped under his chin and turned his head upwards and away from his pillow. This upset him. Warm, soft lips gently closed over his. This was significantly less upsetting.

Chauvelin finally opened his eyes and found himself looking into the face of someone he knew all too well.

"Good morning, mon amour" said Marguerite St. Just.

Chauvelin hadn't the faintest idea as to what was going on, so he did what any other man in his situation would do: he realized she was naked. He also noticed that her belly was swollen.

He sat up and didn't say a word; there were too many unanswered questions running through his head that simply needed to be explained. He finally got up enough wits to ask the most pressing and important question in his mind that could possibly get him an answer to the most disturbing and traumatic problem in his life.

"Marguerite?" he tentatively asked.

"Yes, my love?" she said as she slipped her arms around his torso and rested her head o his muscular chest.

"Why are you fat?"

Not half a second later, Chauvelin found his face in an intimate relationship with Marguerite's fist.