AN: Y'all. I am SO sorry. You must know that Rizzles are my girls, and although I've been taking a slight vacation off in the land of Warehouse 13, exploring Bering and Wells, it's here that I will always return. It's just that the words have been a long time coming for this one. But we're almost to the home stretch. And things are going to pick up in about 3 more chapters. I hope you stick around. Really. Because I love writing these characters and I would love it if y'all enjoyed reading them. Anywho, happy reading and happy...Thanksgiving (?) in March. Love!

It was Thanksgiving. And the house was full to bursting. She'd fought it; hosting the holiday, but Maura had insisted. The medical examiner wanted nothing more than for their home to be warm and joyful and full of boisterous men and crazy mothers. And since she'd called it 'their' home, and clasped her hands together beneath her chin as a child might, Jane had, of course, given in. So, it was Thursday and their home was under attack.

Constance and Angela were in the kitchen and had been since dawn. What they were making that could possibly require rising before the sun was beyond her. The detective had offered to help, if only because Maura had told her to, but she'd quickly been shooed out of the way. With hands raised in surrender, and a swipe of the cream cheese frosting off of her mother's homemade carrot cake, she'd made a quick exit.

And now here she was, peering around the doorway of the living room. If she didn't live in the house, she might feel like a peeping tom or a nosy neighbor, watching events that she had no right to witness. But instead of giving away her position, she merely observed silently, one hand pressed over her heart.

The men had taken over the living room. Literally. She could not remember a time where a pack of guys had mobbed a room so quickly or efficiently. The television was on; the pre-game events were being covered. There were bottles of beer open on the coffee table. And a glass of water for Tommy. It looked like any other Thanksgiving day man-cave. Except for one thing. Well three things.

The first was that the TV had been muted, and closed captioning was scrolling across the screen. The second was that said bottles of beer had all been placed neatly on costers. And the third. Well, the third reason this particular living room scene was so striking was, quite simply, the presence of Maura.

Maura. Her girlfriend was the real reason Jane was lurking like a creeper out of sight, with a bloom of warmth in her chest, and what felt suspiciously like tears pricking at her eyes. The tiny woman, looking even smaller surrounded by all that testosterone, was lying on the couch, asleep. It had been a rough night last night. She was almost finished with this second round of chemo; only two more treatments to go. And her body was about ready to quit. Jane hated seeing her like this; withdrawn, quiet, always so very still. She was the opposite of the Dr. Isles that Jane remembered. That woman had been lively and exuberant and naively excited about the silliest things. The person laying on the couch was someone else, a shell of the woman she loved. Jane shook her head to clear away the images of the night before. She wasn't picturing last night; she was seeing today, and today was wonderful.

Because Maura was asleep, her hatted head resting on a pillow which was propped against Frankie's lap. Her middle brother was holding himself still, barely breathing, his back straight as he stared at the TV. Jane knew that he wasn't taking in anything on ESPN, too focused on not disturbing the woman resting against him. The sight was almost too ridiculous. At the other end of the couch, Tommy had Maura's feet in his lap. And although not as rigid as his brother, he was, quite apparently, controlling any and all desire he had to be shouting at the screen or jumping out of his seat in consternation or excitement. Jane was not sure she'd ever seen her brothers act so reserved during Thanksgiving football.

Frost was in the chair to the side, and although it looked like he was into the coverage, Jane noticed that he turned his head ever so slightly to the side once every ten seconds. He was checking on Maura, making sure the doctor was still asleep. And every time he satisfied himself that she was still resting peacefully, he glanced back towards the screen quickly. He did not realize that Jane was watching him, or that she wanted to hug him because of those quick looks that he pretended weren't happening.

Korsak had just reentered the living room from the kitchen, having been rejected from the mothers' domain more speedily than Jane had. And as he passed the couch, he grabbed the extra throw blanket from the back of the sofa and laid it gently over the sleeping occupant. Letting it flutter down into place with the ease of a man who had covered many a sleeping child, before taking his own seat across from Frost.

Jane had been watching the scene for a good ten minutes, unwilling to enter the room and break up the peace that had settled over its occupants, unwilling to disturb the protective bubble her brothers and her partners had managed to create in silence. She had never been so thankful for the four of them in all her life.

"Jane," she jumped at the sudden interruption of her spying and had to resist the urge to snap to attention and salute. "Might I have a word?" She turned to find Richard Isles framed in the doorway of Maura's study.

Although the man had been in Boston for nearly two weeks now, he and Jane had shared no more than polite words between them. Yet even that was enough to convince her that Richard Isles was not a man to be trifled with. He was a genius for one thing. And, well, rich for another. And he held himself how Jane imagined a king might. And although usually she scoffed at such ridiculous postures and people, Richard Isles carried himself in such a way that one knew immediately that he was not merely putting on airs. He actually was a genius. And a world famous philanthropist and lecturer. But he was also quiet and humble, much like his daughter, and he did not draw attention to himself. He was both dignified and intimidating and Jane had admitted to his daughter several days before that she was just a tiny bit afraid of him. Maura had laughed at her, actually laughed. In her face. And Jane had pouted. At least until Maura kissed her on the cheek, and beneath her jaw, and that place behind her ear...she felt herself blushing at the memory.

"Jane?" He asked again, and when she worked up the courage to meet his eye, she found that he'd raised one eyebrow in question. Maura raised her eyebrow like that. Jane chuckled internally. So many of this man's mannerisms were mirrored by his daughter. If Jane had never met Patty Doyle, she'd have a tough time believing Richard Isles was not Maura's biological father.

"Cer-Certainly, sir." The 'sir' was automatic and she nearly cringed when she murmured the title. She hated calling people, 'sir.' But, Dr. Isles was a different story. The 'sir' was simply an extension of who he was.

"Perhaps in here?" And he gestured to the open study door.

She nodded mutely, allowing him to usher her in to a study that he seemed to have taken over since his arrival. He and Constance were staying at the Elliot in downtown Boston, but they'd been spending most of their days at the house, especially while Angela was at the café and Jane was working. Usually, when she got done for the day, she'd find Maura and her mother in the living room, talking, or watching something on television, or else the doctor would be napping while her mother started dinner. But, Richard was always conspicuously absent when she got home and Maura had told her that he'd taking a liking to her abandoned study. He was a busy man and had a lot of work to do, even if he had relocated to Boston for the immediate future. Maura had seemed unperturbed by this, his apparent lack of engagement, but Jane had been a bit annoyed by it all.

That was, until Tuesday, when she'd come home from the precinct for lunch to surprise her girlfriend. She'd snuck in through the front door and had been ready to burst into the living room, when she'd been brought up short by the sound of a man's voice, deep and smooth, echoing from the room. Peering around the corner, she'd been shocked to find the older gentleman reclining in one of the chairs, glasses perched on the end of his noise, reading Robin Hood aloud in a very convincing, very theatrical British accent. Maura had been giggling, like real life, out loud giggles at her father's exaggerated movements.

She'd admitted to witnessing the event that night, in between pulling back the covers to climb into bed and switching off the light, when Maura asked her point blank why she'd been so quiet all evening. And the medical examiner had repressed a smile at her lover's obvious anxiety about having possibly intruded on such a private moment.

"He reads to me every day," she explained easily. "Since, well..." she could no longer make out the tiny font herself. Yes. "Silly things really. Like Robin Hood today. Or King Arthur. Stories for children." Now it was her turn to be embarrassed.

But, Jane had felt her heart swell for this woman who thrived on facts and figures, and who still, secretly, beneath the polished veneer that was the socialite, adored the stories from when she was a kid. Who still let herself get lost in fairytale worlds and mythical lands far far away. It was adorable, and endearing, and if Jane thought it was possible to love someone more than infinity, if the logical doctor had not told her it was impossible, she might have fallen for Maura even harder in that moment.

"You're wonderful," she whispered, reaching to entwine their hands beneath the covers and pulling Maura closer to her. She kissed her shoulder. "And I love you."

But even though she'd seen with her own eyes Richard Isles acting like a real life human being, she was still slightly afraid of the intimidating man. He'd settled himself behind the large oak desk at this point, and Jane was left to perch on the edge of one of the hard backed leather chairs facing him.

"Scotch?" he asked, indicating the tumbler held in his own hand.

"I- sure." Jane drank beer. She liked beer. But, she wanted Dr. Isles to like her. No, more than that, she wanted his approval, some sign of validation from him that he approved of her relationship with Maura. Or else that he didn't. Either way, she wanted to know. It wouldn't change anything between her and the ME, but it would be nice to know where she stood with the man.

"Happy Thanksgiving," the older man intoned, leaning back in his seat.

"Thank you, too, sir. I mean! You, too. Sir." Jane wished for half a second that she, too, was as relaxed as he seemed to be. She was a homicide detective for the Boston PD and she was sitting in her own house for God's sake. She ate guys like Richard Isles for breakfast. Yet here she was, all bumbling sentences and mixed up words. It was frustrating and she found that she was rubbing the palm of her left hand angrily with the fingers of her right. Directly above the scar Charles Hoyt had left her with.

"I didn't ask you in here to make you uncomfortable, Detective."

If she knew him better, she might think the gentleman looked amused. She forced her hands to still, and, not for the first time since entering the quiet room, she wished for Maura to be sitting beside her, soft hand in her own.

"Well, then, why?" She managed. "If I might ask."

Dr. Isles appraised her from above the rim of the glass held loosely in his hand. "You are dating my daughter. Is that correct?"

She nodded.

"And I believe that it is customary for the father to attempt to ascertain any and all intentions of would be suitors."

She heaved an internal sigh of relief. This was just about some age-old intimidation ritual. She could handle that.

"So," he paused, "Detective Rizzoli, might I ask what your intentions are regarding my daughter."

She was ready to simply blurt out some tried and true response, get the guy off her back so she could go back out to the living room. Some quick, half-sarcastic, half-serious reply that Maura would berate her for later. But, the question brought her up short. No one had asked her yet what her intentions were. No one had asked her to put into words exactly how she felt about the genius doctor sleeping a few rooms over. She looked down at the hard wood of the desk top, thinking. "I-" she began, but she stopped. "Your daughter is - that is to say that - well, it's - Maura," she finished lamely, glancing up to find the father staring at her. "My intentions, sir, are...to love her. Because I do, I love her." This is not enough. "She's been...hurt...before," and Jane does not clarify by whom.

The old man, because he looked suddenly much older at Jane's statement gave an imperceptible nod for her to continue.

"And what she's going through right now," Jane waved her hand in space to indicate... everything. "It's hurting her. And, I can't-I can't," she closed her hands into fists over empty air, "I am incapable of taking away that hurt. But I can make sure the past does not repeat itself. Sir." She looked up to meet his gaze strongly.

"My intentions towards your daughter are to love her until she does not remember what it feels like to be alone. My intentions are to convince her that she truly is as wonderful and good as she seems to be. That she is not worthy of anyone who does not appreciate everything that she is: smart, honest, kind, beautiful," she choked a bit on the last one. "My intentions are to continue loving your daughter, sir, until she won't have me any longer. And then, I intend to continue loving her. Because she is the most amazing woman I have ever met. She is strong, so, so strong," her voice broke. "And I am in awe of her and all that she is."

She debated continuing, but decided it was time for her to put all her cards on the table. No holding back. "I wake up every morning afraid that today will be the day she realizes what a mistake she's made, to love someone like me. And every morning, I think I fall a little bit more in love with her. I-I didn't even realize, sir," she stared at her hands, "what it was to love someone more than yourself, than your whole being. But with your daughter, with Maura, I understand. She makes everyone around her better. She makes me better. And I will do everything in my power to protect her." She stopped suddenly, chest heaving as though she had been sprinting.

Jane does not share feelings. She wears the cool shield of sarcasm well. But the detective has been undone by this simple question, incapable of simply shutting up. She feels full, having released these words into the air. Full instead of empty. So full of this giddy emotion that it causes her stomach to jump up and done and her heart to beat faster and her head to feel light. So full of love, the sappy thought coming unbidden to her mind, that she can feel it seeping out of all of her cracks, all of the wholes left behind by Dean, and punched through her by Charles Hoyt, and etched into her by all the murderers she's encountered over the years. And this love is sealing up those holes. Maura Isles is fixing all of her cracks, repairing her before she even knew she was that close to shattering.

"I love her," it comes out as a whisper. A plea for this man to understand.

She waited, staring at the full glass in front of her, until he let out a sigh. "I see." His tone was difficult to decipher, so she looked up, studying his body language.

"She loves you very much," he agreed, and Jane felt some hidden part of her sing.

"And Constance has told me about the two of you. And I've seen it-"

"Seen what? Sir," she asked.

"It's like magnets." She looked at him blankly. "The two of you. I've never seen Maura this way before. She looks for you above all others when she enters a room. The two of you are forever leaning towards one another. I don't think you even realize that it's happening, but it's quite clear to anyone else nearby. She, for lack of a better term, glows when you are close." Jane was quite sure that Richard Isles was now feeling nearly as uncomfortable as she was ten minutes before. "I'm sorry," he admitted, "that I asked you such a ridiculous question."

The detective was confused at the sudden change in topic.

"It did not need to be voiced. To even be considered. Will you hurt her?"

"No." Simple, yet true.

"Will you continue to care for her as you do now?"

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"With all that I am."

"Good then. She needs you, Detective."

This was not the first time someone has told her this, and once more she answered as she always did, "Not as much as I need her, sir." And she thought that Richard Isles might be the first one to actually understand that this is not something she simply says because it fits appropriately in the blank, but that it is a truth more honest than any other.

With that, it appeared the interview was over, because Richard Isles raised his drink in toast, waiting until Jane lifted her own to meet it with a clinking of crystal, and then he took a small sip of the scotch, one which Jane mirrored. "You should get back out there," he released her.

She nodded, setting her glass down and standing up. But she paused at the door, "Sir?" she turned to look back at him over her shoulder. "Maura is-" She paused, unsure how to continue.

He waved her away, "I know, detective. I understand."

Jane isn't even sure what she was going to say. Maura is strong? Maura is perfect? Maura is the only person I am ever going to truly love? Maura is my better half? Maura is sick and she might die and I am at a loss as to how to save her from something so insidious and evil? Maura is the one person who has managed to save me? But Richard Isles has agreed to all of these things. He understands them all, and so Jane gives him a slight smile of gratitude before slipping out the door and back to the world of muted football and quiet Thanksgiving celebration.

Maura stares around the table silently, taking it all in. This is her family. These people, who have shown her what laughter is, who have defined the words friendship and loyalty and love. These are the people she would trust above all others. The people who would never, ever let her fall. Her chest feels stretched by some unseen force, full, and as if there is something within her that wants to burst out of her. To tell them all how much she appreciates them, how much she loves them. But she resists the urge. They are at dinner. It would be somewhat inappropriate.

She feels Jane's rough palm slide into her own under the table. The detective has been watching her all night. She has felt the dark eyed gaze on her. And, although the detective has become a practiced professional at watching without hovering, Maura has felt her to be a little closer tonight, a bit more present. Ever since Jane came home from the Dirty Robber and caused Maura to see the stars hidden in her eyes, her detective has hated to leave her side, and Maura has been loathe to let her. She wants Jane close to her. She feels safe when the brunette is nearby. Safe and loved from the warmth that the detective emits in her direction in wave.s

She gives her lanky brunette a smile. She is tired, yes, and last night was rough, but she wouldn't miss Thanksgiving dinner for all the world. She can make through a single meal.

"Dundunnadun!" Angela Rizzoli proclaims, entering the dining room, a thirteen pound turkey held proudly on the platter in her hands. Constance trails her with the carving knife, and Maura is not certain that she has ever seen her mother beam, actually beam. A round of applause fills the room for the two women. And the two of them walk over to set the bird before Jane.

The detective looks taken aback for a moment, glancing across the table to meet Richard Isle's eye. Maura cannot interpret the silent conversation the two have. Something about it seems relaxed, familiar even, and Maura realizes that they have talked. Finally.

"Shouldn't Richard do it?" Jane asks the mothers, indicating the father present, but they don't even bother to look at him when they shake their heads in unison.

"Of course not, Janie," Angela explains as one might to a five year old. "When you host Thanksgiving, you carve the turkey."

Maura can feel Jane tense beneath her hand. And she knows how Jane will object before the brunette even gathers herself to speak. So, she leans over, "We are hosting Thanksgiving, Jay. In our home." She is speaking softly enough so that no one else can hear her, and Jane's body has automatically stretched towards her. "And it is the host's job," she kisses a cheek gently, before pulling away, satisfied that her words have had the desired effect when Jane picks up the knife gingerly.

"Oh, but first!" Angela claps her hands with glee and there is a collective groan from those of the younger generation around the table at any more delays. "We all have to go around and say what we're thankful for." She has taken her seat on the other side of her eldest child. "I'll go first! Hmmm," she taps a finger to her chin thoughtfully.

"Ma, c'mon," Tommy mumbles, sounding as if he is in agony. "We wanna eat."

"Hush you," she shushes him. "I am thankful that Mr. Stanley gave me the day off today," Maura can practically sense Jane rolling her eyes beside her and she lays a calming hand on her girlfriend's arm. "so that I can spend it with all of my favorite people." There is a round of appreciative nods.

Then they go around the table. Frankie is thankful for all the help Vince has given him in preparation for his detective's test. Tommy is thankful for turkey, in general. Frost for home cooked meals. Vince for adoptive families, "And donuts," Barry mutters but everyone hears him. Richard gives a soft smile before murmuring that he is thankful for magnets, which no one seems to understand except Jane because she gives a startled, yet appreciative look. Constance is grateful to be able to spend the holiday with her children, and when she says children Maura is certain that her heart stops beating for several seconds because children implies more than one, implies that Jane, too, is her child. She wants to hug her mother.

"Your turn, Maur," Jane gives her a slight nudge and she is forced to wipe away the sudden saltwater gathering itself in the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, I-" and suddenly words are failing her because how do you explain to the people you love how grateful you are for them? And she has never known words to be inadequate until she is put in this position. "I-" Jane's fingers are gripping her own gently. Maura looks around the room, taking in all of the smiling faces turned her way. They are waiting, all of them, for what she might say. "I'm just thankful to be here, with all of you, celebrating such a wonderful holiday with my family."

"Hear, hear!" Tommy cheers loudly, and everyone laughs while Maura glances down, her face flushed in embarrassment.

"Hear, hear," Jane whispers just for her.

"Alright, Janie. Your turn," her mother encourages her.

"Well," and Jane takes a deep breath, "I'm thankful for family, and Vince, turkey, and friends, and donuts, and magnets, and parents, and all of you fine folks," she glances around the table quickly.

But her mother isn't having it. "What are you thankful for?" she orders with a glare.

Jane wilts a bit under the power of the stare. Before looking down thoughtfully at the stuffed bird awaiting her knife. Maura can pinpoint the exact moment when Jane comes to a decision, because her jaw tightens and her back straightens imperceptibly in her chair. The brunette looks up swiftly, her eyes coming to rest on Maura, and the ME feels something in herself tense before relaxing. The emotion in those black eyes is overwhelming. Maura forgets her name. She forgets what the autonomic nervous system is or the functions it controls. She forgets that there are seven other people in the room besides the detective sitting beside her. She forgets that there is anything called cancer or glioma or chemotherapy. She forgets the elements of the periodic table and the order of an autopsy. She forgets everything except Jane.

"I'm thankful for you," the detective's words come out in her low growl, honest and heartfelt and Maura feels herself sink. "I'm thankful for you, Maur." And if a blind man had never seen love, or a deaf man had never heard it uttered, or a sightless, senseless beast had wandered upon their dining room at that moment, they would, for the first time, experience love, in its truest form. Raw, unshuttered.

"I love you," but the words are only secondary to the emotion she emits.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Jane whispers.

They are staring at one another and time seems to have slowed to a crawl and if Maura could stay in this moment forever, she might.

It is not until her father murmurs, "Magnets," under his breath and Tommy drops his fork onto his plate, the clatter echoing over the party that the spell is broken. Time seems to speed up, making up for lost seconds. And Jane has pulled away before Maura even knows that she'd leaned closer and her girlfriend is picking up the giant knife and carving away and Angela is already yelling at her sons while Barry makes fun of Vince. And it is familiar and wonderful and makes her heart ache.

She glances over to find her father smiling at her gently. This man who has been somewhat inaccessible her entire life, always working or off gallivanting around the globe being brilliant and important. She finds that they have more in common than she realized now that he has begun spending his afternoons with her, reading and talking, debating the merits of this or that study, laughing, getting to know one another. She finds that although she has always respected him, always been a little bit afraid of him, even as she'd laughed at Jane when the detective admitted to feeling as such, although she always placed him on a pedestal above all the rest, she has never truly known her father. And that in the past week she has learned more about him than she had in the thirty years previously. And she has found that she enjoys his company, that he is a wonderful conversationalist, an excellent, excellent father. The look he is giving her is one of fatherly affection and she feels her heart expand at the sight. She has never seen him looking at her that way, or maybe she never noticed. And she follows his line of sight when he shifts to look at Jane, and then back to her. And he gives a slow nod as if to say, 'Yes. She is one of the good ones.'

And Maura looks demurely into her lap and then back up with a grin, beaming and brilliant and incapable of being held back. 'She's perfect. I love her.'

And then he glances at Constance and smiles back at his daughter. 'I know the feeling.' And they grin at one another like two fools in love. Because they are.

AN2: Thoughts? Fears? Daydreams?

PS - Y'all are wonderful. But actually.