I read little duckling. And it was insane. Shared it my mohabbot GC—Like I had a visceral reaction — i love how he’s a little manipulative ughhhh. I want so much more—no pressure queen.
Ahhh I’m so happy to hear that! And I’m happy you want more bc the plan for the series is extensive to say the least :-)
He’d read the term in a paper about blood transfusion. A run-of-the-mill systemic review going over rejection prevention and protocol. One of the authors must’ve had a genetics background because nestled amongst the importance of a balanced med routine and the history of the practice, there was a little section.
Microchimerism. The presence of a small number of cells in an individual that have originated from another, genetically distinct, individual.
He’d heard it before but never really paid it mind. This time, however, it stuck. It had a rhythm to it. It was almost pretty sounding. Microchimerism. Mye-kro-kye-MEER-iz-um.
The most common kind was fetomaternal, he read in another paper. Fetal cells lingering and reintegrating in the mother, spreading throughout the system, still living, still thriving. Starting in utero and moving through the blood, settling in the skin, the liver, the kidneys, the heart, the brain, finding a new home for themselves. Integrating.
It’s a romantic notion, he thinks. The idea that you can be haunted biologically. That you can carry them with you, tangibly. Skin, Blood, Liver, Kidneys, Heart, and Brain.
There was debate, of course, about ratios and n values and function, but Jack doesn’t need a quantitative answer. He doesn’t care what a research study says because he already had his answer: he’s been haunted by Annie for the better part of his life. Since he was 15, at least. She’d been on his mind for months before creeping into his heart and building a home. And she’d stayed there and only continued to spread. In his skin, in his blood, in his kidneys and his liver and every other part of him.
Something that people forget, though, was that microchimerism is bidirectional. The fetus carries maternal cells too, forever and always.
And that’s the truth of it; we give away bits of ourselves to people just as readily as we take. We gain new cells, but we also lose cells: an equitable exchange.
Except death—the great equaliser—the most unnatural, natural thing, tips the scale. Or maybe just throws it away entirely.
There’s nothing balanced about Jack’s existence. Not in the pieces of Annie that have woven themselves into him, not in the empty spaces in his vision, the dark spots where she should stand. It wasn’t fair because letting go was impossible: she was a part of him, cells wide-spread and nestled in, indistinguishable. And his cells, his love, those little parts of him that he’d given over freely had died with her.
He was changed: permanently, hopelessly, thankfully. He was nothing without her, never has been, never will be. But he was grateful, now, to have been changed. Her body had left, but she hasn’t. She was all the missing parts of him.
A more recent review had debated the function of fetomaternal cells: were they bystanders, did they help the host, did they hurt it?
There’s no consensus. Not really. Some studies claim that they help repair tissues and with wound healing. It’s ironic, Jack thinks, that the memories of her, the echoes left behind, were the only things that could ease the gaping wound of her absence. An injury and a salve packaged neatly together.
Other studies claim that these foreign cells might help immune function and regeneration. Jack believes that. He has to. Memories of Annie, memories of that carefree sort of feeling, were the only things that kept him going. The idea that joy lived in this world, that it truly existed. Maybe it could still be his too: maybe Annie who lived in his kidneys and his liver would help filter out the bad and help him keep the good. Distilling the harshness of grief and living down to the joy of having loved and still waking up alive.
Microchimerism wasn’t exclusionary, wasn’t greedy and withholding, and neither were humans. Mothers could carry cells from every single one of their children and people could always find room for more love. We’re built to adapt and expand, to welcome and host. Our sense of self is built, at least in part, by the community of others around us.
He’s always known himself as Jack Abbot: Annie’s man; made in her image, carrying pieces of her. And maybe those pieces—that have been inside him for so long, they’ve become nigh indistinguishable—have actually been laying in wait, for when he glimpsed that joy again.
Maybe the Annie in his heart had resettled, making space, finding a new home in his blood; circulating through him, reminding him that love was possible, keeping him fed, full of oxygen and hope.
Jack knows when he starts to change again, knows when new cells introduce themselves. How could he not? He’d been the same for so long. A lonely man living a lonely life, his only companion the ghost of what-once-was. So, he knows when Samira starts infiltrating his system. His brain was first. Suddenly she was always on his mind and in his thoughts: has she eaten? Where is she? Did she like the study I shared? Suddenly there’s an awareness, as if his body could recognize her across any space, resonant cells, a piece of him, out in the ether waiting.
It’s quick from there, an unstoppable mitosis and metastasis, starting in his brain, spreading to his too-fast heart, and then his skin flushed-pink. She was everywhere. She’s in the tissues and muscles and soft gorey parts, living like she’d always been there. Microscopic little cells, invisible to the human eye, imperative to his biology.
Maybe that’s why loving Samira feels so natural, like it’s an extension of himself. He loved Samira like he loved his alveoli and hypothalamus and the blood in his veins: he couldn’t do anything but love them, and thank them endlessly for the life they gave him, for their miraculous presence, and for loving him.
Most studies claim that microchimerism isn't common. That only up to 50% of mothers hold fetal cells and an even lesser number of children, but Jack doesn't believe that. People were made of their experiences: scars and triumphs alike, every body was a combination of mismatched parts, fitting together just right. So, Jack knew that Samira carried her dad in her heart and her mind and her very bones, just like he carried Annie.
Which is why Jack doesn’t blame her when she runs; when she comes to his house late one June night and makes all of his dreams come true, only to leave before he wakes. He doesn't blame her for the job she takes in Baltimore or the way she dodges his calls but texts him religiously.
He knows her and she knows him.
She knows what he means when he sends her a review of microchimerism; the same one he'd read months ago, printed, and kept on his kitchen counter, treasured. And she knows that when she responds with her address, that he’ll be there in approximately four and a half hours, barring traffic. And those shared cells, that innate familiarity, is why he knows that the door will be unlocked and she’d be inside waiting for him.
Jamira bears being so so so codependent that they’ve fused into one. Samira at the hub complaining about something Abbot usually grumbles about… everyone’s looking at her confused and she doesn’t realize it…. Jack drinking all of the same specialty lattes and chai’s and matcha because he got a taste for it…
Good morning!! I just wanted to write to ask if you ever think you're going to finish your mohabbot fic worth every mile? I am obssessed with it! i want more small town samira (or rather, samira stuck in a small town)! i want more details about jack and his issues! i want her to end up back at his place every night she's there!
hello!! Yes I absolutely will be finishing it very soon.. the whole thing is fully outlined and 1/2 written :)) I’ve just been a tad distracted by some one-shots and work haha
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
kaledo-art
