Title: Did You Say Dentist?

Authoress: T-R-Us

Rating: PG-13 for possible language

Summary: When the leader of the revolution is away, the insurgents come out to play, but for how long can Les Amis remain on task while Enjolras is away with a toothache?

Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own Les Misérables, but if I did you KNOW that there would be no straight revolutionaries, the musical would be rated XXX and the book would be in the erotic section of the book store. And those would be only minor changes.

Chapter One: A State of Dental Emergency

Grouping: The Amis D'ABC

"Enjolras, does my tongue look—"

"No Joly, no it does not." Enjolras sat in a secluded corner of the Café Musain, attempting to work on 'important revolutionary business.'

"—weird to you?" Joly was seated next to Bossuet, examining a perfectly normal tongue in his pocket mirror.

"Well Joly, everyone's tongue looks weird."

"Yes but yours especially." Joly let out a squeak and jumped from his chair, fingering his tongue to the best of his incredibly clean fingers' ability.

"Boo bou billy think thso?" Removing his digits in order to allow himself to speak properly, Joly continued moaning for the imminent loss of his tongue. "Oh my poor tongue! It must be Ebola! Or the plague or- or---"

"Mon Dieu! Joly your tongue is not spotted, striped, shiny or infected!" In act of frustration, Enjolras threw his quill across the room. He had a rather painful headache and a strange throbbing in his jaw. "Nor does it look weird in the least!"

"But then again, both Courfeyrac and Bahorel have a valid point. It depends greatly on your point of view whether or not—"

"Combeferre, shut your philosophical pie-hole."

'Ferre, rather taken aback from Enjolras' sudden aggressiveness, sighed softly from the table where he and Bossuet were involved in a revolutionary game of X's and O's.

"I for one—" spoke up the lump in the distant corner opposite Enjolras.

"I for one don't particularly care what you think, Wine Cask, for that is what you are: an inaudible, unintelligent wine cask." The last two words were spat out with such inexpressible rage, that all the Amis d'ABC looked away from their leader almost in fear of having to face his fury. The lump sighed and looked down, knowing full well that that was exactly how Enjolras thought of him. A stupid drunkard with no name save 'Wine Cask.'

"Enjolras- if that is how you're going to act all evening, I believe we should retire before we- before you- get too aggressive." Courfeyrac smiled at his leader as he placed down his hand of cards. "Full house, you?"

"No! No retiring, no getting drunk and NO MORE POKER!"

Feuilly, doodling some unintelligible thing on his piece of paper, rolled his eyes. Across from him, where Bahorel and Courfeyrac were shuffling their cards, the two muttered together angrily. At the table next to theirs, Combeferre and Bossuet had finished their tenth round of X's and O's and had started an eleventh, whilst Jean Prouvaire wrote something with great flourish that was quite obviously not of revolutionary importance or relation. Joly had remained quiet after Enjolras' first outburst and was still examining his mouth.

"Where is my quill?!"

"On the floor." Grunted the lump from the corner- Grantaire- as he glanced at the ground and the spot where Enjolras had carelessly thrown his quill.

"Did you not hear me!? Where is it!?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Grantaire's eyes swiveled around to focus on the fair face. The deep black bags under them giving off the full effect of having gone without sleep for days. "I said it was on the floor."

"Mon Dieu, the Wine Cask can speak!"

"Enjolras, leave Grantaire alone, here is your quill." Jehan thrust it into the leader's hand. "Just, just stop, alright!?"

"Hey Joly, can I see that mirror?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's Musichetta's"

"Well, so am I."

"Fine."

Admiring his bald pate in the mirror, Bossuet came about to imitate Joly by sticking out his tongue and swiveling it around so as to get a better look. "ACK!"

"Dying of something now, too, L'Aigle?"

"No, unfortunately…. But… wait! Could it… could it be? The, I've the plague! NO!!!" Lesgle fell over, feigning death as his friends laughed and Joly turned bright red.

"Come on, I want my mirror back. Please."

"Wait-ugh! Are my teeth that disgusting?"

"Apparently. Mirror- now."

"Enjolras—" Combeferre had begun to approach his moody friend, quiet amid the loud noise of the café. "Are you feeling alright? You've criticized Grantaire only once and gotten no work done at all."

"Of course I'm not alright! I have a huge headache and a throbbing pain in my jaw!"

If anything surprised 'Ferre, it was Enjolras' complaint of a headache or any other sort of pain. "It must be a tooth ache."

Enjolras had begun pounding his forehead against the table, moaning.

"Come now, will that help anything?"

"No!"

"Then why do it?"

"I don't know!" He snapped in reply, sitting up straight, wisps of bright blond hair waving in tendrils about his forehead and neck. "I don't know anything anymore… the revolution… you're all fools!" He motioned out towards the amis, "All of you: fools! What have any of you given to the cause of the revolution? Nothing! It's me- and me alone- doing everything!"

"That's not entirely true—"

"Yes Monsieur Prouvaire, it is. What have you done since coming here tonight? You sat and wrote poetry which is all that you've done every other night since you started coming here!"

"Now that's not fair—"

"Is anything fair? Is life fair? Is living under the force of the king fair!? Are we doomed to live the rest of ours lives under a monarchy where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Or will we fight and die beneath the sun of a new world? A new world with rights and freedom!" "Yes Enjolras, it is what we all want, it's why we're here in the first place, non?"

"Yes, yes it is."

"Good! Then I want to see all of you doing something productive!" There were a few groans and a couple sighs at this announcement, but by the time Enjolras looked back at his friends, each of them was doing something semi-productive. Feuilly was doodling an image of the worker's red flag. The others were also doing something best reflecting their talents and interests, be it Bahorel's rough, aggressive and excruciatingly bloody cartoon of what NOT to do in a war, or Jehan's writing a collection of songs to be sung during the lonely hours of night. A very interesting affair altogether.

"What am I to do?"

"Well Wine Cask—"

"I do have a name, you know."

"Fine, Grantaire—"

"Yes?"

"I was going to give you something to do, but you keep interrupting."

"Has anyone told you that for a leader you are very childish?"

"Has anyone told you that you are nothing better than a wine cask?"

"Numerous times."

"Your assignment is to leave."

"It's a free country."

"It will be."

"But not anytime soon, at the rate that you and your passion for the revolution are moving."

Judging that this argument would probably last a while if not interrupted soon, Combeferre came up and patted Enjolras on the shoulder. "Stop getting angry at Grantaire, if you are going to live by your rules for the republic, you two are both equal and should treat each other as such. Grantaire, don't provoke him."

The drunkard paid no heed to the advice, as he was very thoroughly examining his boots and pondering what would happen if he were to tie the laces together, only to realize his boots had no laces: only buckles.

"Enjolras, what do we do when we're done?"

"You can't be done! We haven't done anything!? HOW CAN YOU BE DONE!?"

Bahorel raced back to his seat, "I am not done. I am not done. I am not done…"

"Nice try."

"Thanks." The Amis toiled for another hour or two, passing notes to each other, whispering and basically lacking the productivity they had just had while Enjolras moaned, ranted, complained and Grantaire slept.

"Damn."

"What was that Courfeyrac?" Enjolras looked up grumpily, glaring at the disturber of the peace.

"I have exams tomorrow…"

The other students rolled their eyes, and Joly stretched: "I should be going too, don't want to lose any sleep and catch a cold." He added hastily.

"Who said anything about Courfeyrac going anywhere?"

"In that case—"

"Bahorel sit down!"

"But I—"

"No!"

"Enjolras, I'm bleeding."

"WHAT!?"

"Oh, never mind."

"Enjolras?" Jehan asked.

"What?"

"You're supposed to say 'yes'."

"Why?"

"Just say it, please?"

Enjolras eyed the poet suspiciously, but still gave in to the innocent looking poet's pleas. "Oui. Now what?"

"I say au revoir!"

And so, Jean Prouvaire rose, stretched, gathered his papers, quills and ink, and promptly strode out, followed immediately by almost everyone else.

"Aren't you going too?" Enjolras received no reply from the lump in the corner, merely snores. "Fine with me." He set about collecting his plans and such when someone came in the door. Without looking up, Enjolras knew who it was. "Marius, you're late!"

"What- no!"

"How could you miss another meeting?" Saying this made Enjolras wince and cradle his jaw.

"You should see someone about that tooth ache."

"I'm FINE!"

"Pourquoi moi?"

"Musichetta—"

"Non! Joly, you are not ill! Arretez, sil vous plait." Musichetta had her hands on her hips, Joly and Lesgle had just returned home and were annoying her greatly. Both were soaked through to the skin and Joly was making a great act of sneezing and coughing so as to direct her attention from the large wet puddles of rainwater covering the floor of their shared garret.

"Oh, 'Chetta, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" It wasn't until now that Bossuet and Joly noticed her eyes were red-rimmed from tears.

"Musichetta?"

"Bossuet, be quiet!"

"Mushi, are you sick?"

"No Joly!"

"Chetta—"

Musichetta snarled and glared at Bossuet, "There is nothing wrong! Go away!"

"It's okay! You know you can tell us anything—"

"—everything!" Added Joly as Bossuet crept closer to his- and Joly's- mistress. "Tell me." As he was about to place his arm around her hip, she grabbed a book from the shelf.

"I said no! Does it not penetrate your bald skull? Non, non, NON!!" The book flew from her hand into L'Aigle's face.

"OW!"

"Oh Lesgle, I'm sorry!"

"It's bleeding, Joly, HELP!"

"I can't touch your blood, that's unsanitary!"

"My tooth!" Bossuet's tooth, had indeed fallen clear out of his mouth from the blow of the book and now lay in a small puddle of blood.

"Oh! Mon Dieu, what have I done!?"

"Lesgle, hold still!"

"My tooth!"

Suddenly the grizette stopped moaning about how she'd killed Lesgle and grinned. "Oh, I just remembered!'

Staring at his mistress as if she'd gone crazy, Joly eyed her. "Remembered, what?"

"A dentist! A new dentist had taken up office in la rue L'Echarpe!"

"Really?" Joly was amazed. All in all, the three of them in their garret looked incredibly comical, and both the hypochondriac and the grizette began to laugh while Bossuet stood in agony over his lost tooth.

"Yes!" replied Musichetta, once her 'bout of mirth had ended enough for her to form coherent words, as she grabbed onto Joly's arm, "And I want you to take L'Aigle there."

"It's raining—"

"Consider yourself a body guard, make sure Bossuet isn't hit by something."

Joly smiled and brushed Musichetta aside, L'Aigle's bad luck was legendary if not only a joke among friends. "Well, if you put it that way—"

"I do." Musichetta placed Bossuet's tooth in his hand and closed his fingers around it. "Now go!" She shoved them both out the door and straightened her hair. "Finally," she murmured, "I can get back to that awfully sad book." She slumped onto a chair, clutching a thick, bound novel; her eyes becoming red again as she pelted the pages with tears."

"So what are we up for? Gin, Rummy?"

"Don't go saying gin or rummy." Courfeyrac jerked his head back, behind them in the wet streets was Grantaire, wandering back to his home.

"Well sorry. If someone just put him out of his- our- misery—"

"Bahorel!" Courfeyrac pulled out his key and led his friend into his room in the Latin Quarter.

"Well it's true." Bahorel had accompanied Courfeyrac home on the pretense of getting in a few hands of poker or what not. Their reasoning had been if they couldn't play at the café, then they would take their game elsewhere.

"So, what'll it be? Gin, Poker, Black Jack, Sol—"

"You know Bahorel, I'm just not in the mood anymore." "Some game then."

"Yes…" The stood awkwardly at either side of the room, neither knowing what to do or say that is- until another entered the room: Marius with a shock of tussled and wet hair came in shivering.

"Hey Courfeyrac, and uhm… Bahorel?"

"That's right, forget my name."

"Where were you?"

"Nowhere?"

"You've been stalking that poor girl in the park again, haven't you?"

"No I've been at—"

"Marius is in lo-ove."

"Bahorel, stop that."

"Oh but you are!"

Marius was turning red with embarrassment. "So what if I am in love? What's it to you?"

"Oh, Courfeyrac, I believe we've hit a soft spot."

"Most definitely."

"If you two would—" Marius leaned in to examine Courfeyrac's face. "I've never noticed before. Is that tooth grown in?"

"What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

"Your tooth." Marius pointed at Courfeyrac's mouth. There was a toothless hole where an incisor should have been, and it was hardly noticeable.

"Oh. Uhm. No."

"You're missing a tooth? HA!"

"Apparently so." "

I'm going to tell… everyone!"

"BAHOREL!"

Marius grinned, the subject had been successfully changed. Now to get out of the house so he could write a letter to Cosette. "There's a new dentist in town…" He said slowly. "I'm sure you could… go there?"

"Why? I've lived years without this tooth."

Bahorel scrutinized Marius carefully. "You're trying to get rid of us."

"I am not!" Marius yelped, a little too indignantly.

Over on the other side of the room, Courfeyrac examined his tooth in a mirror. "Is it that noticeable?"

"Oh yes Courfey, it is! You should go, or all the pretty grizettes will be afraid to kiss you."

Marius grinned. "You should go too, Bahorel."

"Why should I go?"

"Maybe the grizettes will start liking you too, with cleaner teeth that is."

"Are you implying that the ladies don't like me? Or that my teeth are dirty?"

"N-no."

"You were, weren't you!?"

Courfeyrac backed away. Bahorel angered was not a pretty sight, or a safe one for any eager spectators.

"I'm not implying anything!"

"You ARE! Just because you're in love—"

"At least she loves me back!"

Courfey closed his eyes as Bahorel's fist darted out; straight into Marius' open mouth.

"There! Now you get to go to the dentist too!"

Blood oozed from Marius' lips and gums, his hands flew up to cover his two, now loose, front teeth.

"C'mon Marius! Bahorel, now I really think you should accompany us."

"My pleasure."

Combeferre had started his walk home with much gusto and energy, but now as he neared his destination and rain poured on him from above: his posture had become more slumped and his pace had lessened drastically. Thoughts of what Enjolras had said to him earlier about having a pain in his jaw had struck something in his own head, Combeferre was now convinced that there was a smarting tingle coming from his teeth. Was it really there or had Joly's hypochondriac ways finally gotten to him, leaving he too as a malade imaginaire?

Shaking his head as if to get rid of such thoughts, the philosopher trudged on. His house was only a few blocks away now, and he started to wonder. Maybe a move was in order if he was going to continue to go to frequent meetings at Musain. It certainly was one long hike to get to and from. Not to mention a dangerous one, with gamins ready to pick whatever money he happened to have on him, and horses running loose in some of the streets. Yes, a definite accident waiting to happen.

"Monsieur, do you have any food to give to a poor girl?" The speaker was a young member of the female sex, who didn't look too poorly off. If anything she might even be more well fed hen Combeferre did. Not wanting to stop to speak to this gamine, he brushed past, avoiding eye contact and pretending not to have heard her.

The streets these days were overrun with the poor, poverty was growing in Paris, as well as the crime rate. It really opens your eyes as to wait it is that Enjolras is dreaming of, Combeferre thought to himself as he entered la rue de L'Echarpe, a world where no one is starving on the streets or freezing in the cold. A world where—the philosopher stopped in his tracks and all thoughts ceased to swirl around his head. What was this?

There was a large wooden sign overhanging a relatively new looking shop. New? In… Paris? Spellbound, Combeferre made his way through the rain towards the store and, after wiping the water from his spectacles, noted that the white blur on the sign was actually a picture of a tooth.

"A dentist!" he murmured, "A dentist…" Thinking that this magician of all that is mouth, could possibly tell if there was indeed anything wrong with 'Ferre's teeth and in turn fix it, or just prove it to be a figment of his limited imagination. Placing his hand on the doorknob, he paused before pushing it open.

A dentist's office in this time… it wasn't pleasant. Sharp utensils used to perform painful operations, only recently the reclining dental chair had been invented. Not to mention porcelain teeth. Was this a good idea? Combeferre brought himself into check, of course it was. If anyone could solve his problem: it would be this dentist. And without further thought, he pushed open the door and entered.

Instead of going home after the meeting at the café, Feuilly and Jehan had merely left the private back room that was home to their arguments and debates, and were seated in the main part of the Café Musain, both with a glass of wine in front of them, and a heated remark on the edge of their tongues.

"Non, the art of writing provides nicer imagery than that of drawing."

"I disagree, a picture is an image, and therefore is much better at describing something."

The two had entered their argument when Feuilly had started by saying: "Your poems provide such amazing visuals, they greatly surpass my own artwork." Thus both had begun to disagree, each stubbornly holding up the point that the other's art form was better.

Running his tongue over his upper gums, thinking of a rebuttal for Jean Prouvaire's comment, Feuilly was amazed at the number of sores that were there. Thinking back on it, his mouth had been sore recently, and these small blisters were most likely the cause of it.

Glancing at his watch, Jehan gasped. "I'm terribly sorry Feuilly, but we'll have to continue this later. I have a dentist appointment in a few minutes and I need to leave." Placing a few sous on the table, to pay for his drink, the poet rose.

"Jehan, would you mind if I came along?"

The man was surprised, but nodded. "You're welcome to come, dental problem?"

"You might say that." Together the two, like most of their fellow revolutionaries, made their way to the dental office in the rue de L'Echarpe.

Grantaire stumbled through the streets. For once it hadn't been his intention to drink himself inebriate. When he'd noticed that Enjolras was feeling unwell, it had been his plan to console him and try to help ease the pain with an old remedy he knew. But, as go the best laid plains of mice and men, his best intention had not prevailed. In fact, after the first few glasses of wine after he'd been reprimanded, R had not been able to stop. He hated to blame Enjolras for anything, but if it was anyone's fault that he had drunk so much, it was the fearless leader's.

Trying to think beyond the small barrier he had boxed his mind into, Grantaire looked about his surroundings groggily. What was that sign? From his distance, and in his state of mind, it looked like a bottle… An odd shaped bottle, but a bottle none the less.

Well, if I've already drunken a lot… He thought to himself, attempting to come to a conclusion to his thoughts beyond the cloudy haze of the alcohol running through his brain. Then a bit more can't hurt.

With new resolve, R entered the shop. Which, as it turns out, the sign of said shop wasn't a bottle… but a tooth.

'It must be a toothache…' Enjolras groaned as he realized the truth in Combeferre's statement. But what was he to do? Back when he was a child he'd gone to a dentist when he had a tooth ache, or a problem with his mouth. But as well as the revolutionary knew Paris, he could not recall whether or not there was a dentist anywhere near his apartment.

Deciding to take a walk, and hope that his pain would lessen as he witnessed the pain and suffering his fellow, but less fortunate, citizens of Paris felt. Pulling on an old waistcoat, and retying his cravat, before rolling up his long sleeves against the summer weather, Enjolras stepped out of his tenement, and, nodding to his landlady, strolled off…