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***
The summer she was ten, Janet's grandmother brought her along to a campmeeting. During the day she played with the other children, learned Bible songs, made elaborate crafts with paper plates, pipe cleaners, glitter and glue.
Then after dinner the evening service would drag for hours, Janet sitting on a hard wooden bench, swinging her feet that wouldn't reach the floor. The sanctuary was a large, metal building, purpose-built, with a concrete floor and garage doors along the sides, flung open for the breeze and the flies to get in. Her grandmother sweated in her summer print dress and fanned them both with a cardboard picture of Jesus stapled to a popsicle stick.
At the front, a bald, red-faced preacher waved his hands and prayed for revival. Janet wasn't sure what revival was, but if it meant the service would be over faster, she was all for it.
***
The first person she saw brought back to life was a woman named Susan. It was Janet's first day of her emergency room rotation in med school, and her main goals were to stay out of the way and not throw up. Susan had pulled out in front of a pickup truck, and the pickup had won. There was blood and chaos, and Janet stood in a corner watching as she flatlined. Susan's body was broken and lifeless; the doctors shocked her heart, and the third time, a rhythm reappeared on the monitor.
Yes, thought Janet, clenching her fists and smiling.
***
It took six months and a legal battle and finally a court order before Jeff would sign the divorce papers.
"You'll regret this, Janet," he said in disbelief from across the courtroom. It wasn't a threat; rather, his ego couldn't fathom the idea that she didn't need him.
She straightened her spine, fixed him with the look she used on whining airmen. As he shrunk under her scrutiny, she imagined a whole new life unfolding before her. "No, I don't think I will."
***
Daniel pulled violently at the restraints, sweat beading on his brow. "Need to go back, please, please," he panted, eyes flitting around the room, unfocused.
Janet ordered another dose of sedative and stood back watching as it took three nurses to hold him down and administer it. She cradled her sprained wrist against her chest and drew her bottom lip between her teeth.
He was dead and now he's not, she reminded herself as he screamed.
Four years later Colonel O'Neill lay in the same bed, in the same restraints, suffering the same withdrawal. This time she administered the sedative herself, then joined Sam and Teal'c in the observation room.
"I have not before seen a Goa'uld use a sarcophagus as a torture device. It is most effective." Teal'c's measured voice barely concealed his rage.
"It's our fault," Sam whispered. "We asked him to go to the Tok'ra. If he hadn't—"
"He'd be dead," Janet finished resolutely, gripping Sam's shoulder.
"Perhaps sometimes," Teal'c said after a pause, "death is preferable."
***
Daniel rang her doorbell late one night. He stood in the night, the yellow focus of the porch light illuminating his face, and for the first time since his descension she saw real recognition there.
"You remember," she said.
"Yes," he replied, then backpedaled. "I, um, I think I do."
She motioned him in, started brewing coffee for something to do. He hovered, and she could tell he wanted to touch her.
He brushed her fingers, intentionally, as she handed him his coffee mug, and she lingered, running her own fingers across his knuckles, taking his hand in both of hers as he set the mug on the kitchen counter.
"You were dead," she murmured, tracing the familiar lines on his palm, marveling at the smoothness of his new, uncalloused hands.
"Not really," he answered, and she was glad he didn't go further, didn't talk about Oma Desala or other planes of existence. She wondered if he remembered that, too, but she won't ask.
"It felt like you were dead." She searched his face, watched him watch her until he nodded.
"Okay," he said, tugging her against him and wrapping his arms around her. She listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear. "But I'm back now."
***
She couldn't breathe around a tube in her throat, and the pain in her chest was excruciating. Panic welled up, and she tried to move, tried to breathe.
"Janet?" She registered a voice, a hand on her hand, then on her forehead. "Dr. Carmichael, I think she's waking up," the voice called. The softer, closer to her ear, "Janet? It's okay. It's going to be okay." Daniel.
Then Andrew Carmichael, telling her to relax, taking her off the ventilator. Breathing on her own was even more painful.
Andrew waved a penlight in her eyes, and she saw spots for long moments afterwards, swimming across Daniel's face as he leaned close. He was unshaven, haggard, and she wondered how long she had been unconscious.
"Did I die?" she mouthed, barely a sound escaping her throat. She was so very tired.
His lips brushed her forehead, her lips. "No," he whispered. "You're going to be okay."