There's an instant when this seems entirely ordinary: Combeferre mumbling to Minerva, Jeanne no doubt perched on a bedpost, the coffeemaker hissing and gurgling to itself over the first few drops of morning coffee--

And then the words register, as the world snaps back into proper focus and then tilts again into strangeness, and Enjolras turns sharply to stare at Combeferre.

(There are no birds on either bedpost. Of course there aren't. It was a dream -- unless it wasn't?)