Remix: Five Dreams (The Déjà Vu Remix) [Janet Fraiser, 456 words, rated PG-13], by trascendenza
Janet is nothing if not a consummate professional. When she performs physicals, she never takes a single liberty and her hands never stray farther than absolutely necessary for medical purposes. Granted, she can't stop her eyes from appreciating the view in front of her--especially the Marines, goodness, those boys worry about their figures more than models--but after her head hits the pillow at night, all bets are off.
Daniel, in particular, makes the most adorable noises when she snaps on the latex glove and tells him to strip.
Sometimes she's back on Earth, living the life she always thought she'd have. Doing rounds in a hospital where the strangest thing she encounters is people who think their rectum is a good place to store a living animal or the occasional rare and challenging virus.
She has a handsome, nondescript boyfriend and a well-decorated, nondescript apartment. Sometimes she has children, and sometimes she has grandchildren.
Half the time she wakes up with a pain in her chest, a longing for something simpler; half the time she wakes up and breathes a sigh of relief. She isn't sure which reaction to believe, if either.
"Cassie, Cassie, Cassie," she holds her tight, so tightly that she'll probably trigger the explosion herself, but she can't let go, she can't, "it'll be okay, sweetie, it'll be okay, I promise, I promise," and she says Cassie's name over and over like a chant, like if she keeps re-affirming her existence surely it can't end.
Cassie smiles. "I know, mom."
And everything goes white, and Cassie is nothing more than blood on her arms and a scream stuck in her throat.
It's a few months later when they begin invading her dreams. On bad nights, they're hosts to a hostile alien force and begin a successful foothold in the SGC, killing them all off one by one. Major Cliffton laughs as she shoots Samantha in the chest, and she cringes every time she hears Jack's anguished cry. She always begs him to take her first.
On good nights, they come back tired and worn and she has to patch them up, some digits and extremities sacrificed in the process, but at least they're all alive. At least they're human.
But a year later, SG-6 still hasn't come back, and she hates that she remembers their faces more clearly from nightmares than from the all-too-brief time they had together.
There's one dream she has--only once, but it's enough--and she can't shake the strong feeling of déjà vu that follows her around afterwards, dogging her every step.
A staff blast, and it burns up through her lungs and her heart and her throat, and then there's just--