Fandom: Law and Order Special Victims Unit

Title: Christmas Star

Chapter 1: Hallelujah

P O V: Amanda Rollins

45 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, NY 10111

A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone. I wish you all a safe and blessed holiday season. Usual disclaimer applies I only own my original characters all others belong to Dick Wolf, and his company. Thank you to all who have followed, reviewed and favored. If you want updates faster please leave positive reviews. The lyrics used belong to the writers who write them not me.

"So, Olivia, what is your Christmas wish?"

My Captain Olivia Benson turns to me we're standing under the seventy-nine foot Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center; the gigantic Norway Spruce is forty-nine feet wide and sends a whiff of cedar and pine through the air. Over 50,000 multicolored LED lights mixed with colorful tinsel and thousands of elaborate decorations make the tree glow and shimmer under the moonlight. Olivia's face is illuminated in a soft, radiant, beautiful shadow as she stares up in wonder at the gorgeous tree.

Tonight is a perfect night. Candles burn inside the windows of surrounding buildings, a mixture of brownstone homes and businesses. Church bells ring in the distance. Sounds of laughter emulate the ice-shaking rink below; children chase each other's parents, groan and yell for them to slow down. Bodies crash upon bodies, making children glee in laughter. Dog's bark trying to break free of their owner's grasp, their owners who stand around in small clusters with friends and family members laughing, talking, and sipping steaming cups of their favorite beverages. Smells of hot chocolate and coffee permeate in the air mixing with hot apple cedar.

A children's choir sings beautifully. Each child holds a candle in their hands, dressed in their school colors of white acolyte robes and red stoles with golden crosses at the ends. Their voices blend beautifully, rising in perfect harmony; the tenor's nasally tones mix with the sopranos ringing high above the trumpets and piano. The baritones and altos compete in their lower ranges to match their cousins. It's beautiful. Their voices sound like the kids below on the ice chasing each other but coming together to create a harmonious sound one can only find at Christmas time.

Fall on your knees

Oh, hear the angel voices

Oh night divine

Oh night when Christ was born

Oh night divine

Oh night divine

Standing under the tree, the three-hundred-pound Swarovski star lights up their shadows made up of three million crystals, which glitter and sparkle casting upon the excited and bored faces of the children's choir. Each child is so unique in their expression that you can tell which kids love being here tonight verse the children forced to attend by their parents.

"Starlight, star-bright oh, you shine so bright, what do you wish for tonight?"

I mumble as I stare up at the star, which has attracted many people tonight. "Did you know the star represents our greatest ambitions for hope, unity, and peace?" "No, Jet, I did not, but thank you for the additional fact. I am sure I can use it in trivia night with my sons one day." "You're welcome, Amanda." Jet Slootmaekers smiles as she tosses a piece of broken pretzel to my dog Frannie Mae who barks excitedly.

"My Christmas wish, Amanda, hmm. I don't know; it is an excellent question. What is yours?"

Sparks of laughter escape my lips as I sip my beer. "Oh, clever captain turning around my question into a question of your own." Olivia flashes me an award-winning smile as she waves to her eleven-year-old son Noah Porter Benson. "Well, they didn't promote me to captain for being stupid." "no, they didn't. Okay, fine, I can play fair sometimes, so what do I want for Christmas? It is indeed a complicated question; do I want world peace, more money than Steve Jobs, health for my sons, or crime to drop, No, maybe for people to love each other unconditionally? Nope, what I truly desire, Olivia, is to know what your wish for Christmas is?"

"Oh, good comeback, Amanda."

"Thank You, so will I get an answer?"

"Maybe, buy me a drink, and we shall see what the night unfolds." Olivia laughs as she claps for the choir mid-song. Earning a few glares from their parents makes her checks fill with a rosy color. "Oops." She covers her mouth, giggling, making me wonder if maybe she started drinking before we even met up tonight.

This is the story, the power, and the glory

Three wise men knelt to pray

A guiding star had led the way

And there he lay born on Christmas day

"Oh, so it's like that tonight, Olivia?"

"Aye, it's like that, so will you buy me a drink?"

"I suppose the boys are hungry; I know I am. Hey, boys, are you hungry?"

Both Noah and my eleven-year-old son Ri Rollins, who will be twelve tomorrow, instantly perk up, yelling out a very enthusiastic. "YES!" Olivia and I laugh, turning to each other. "What did you except asking two preteen boys if they are hungry? They are always hungry!"

"I'm hungry too, thanks for asking, Rollins." Jet's dry sense of humor causes us both to laugh loudly. Her dead-lock face makes it even funnier. "Of course, we are inviting you, Jet." "Aw, thanks. I am honored." "Alright, boys, you know where to head. Stay in our line of sight. If you look back and can't see us, you are going too fast. Stop and wait for your old mama's."

"Yes, mama!"

"Where are we heading anyway?' Jet claps for Frannie, who looks up at her begging, barking as she waits patiently for Jet to toss her more food. "My ex-boyfriend, Ri's father, owns an Irish pub called Tipperary's a few blocks down. Ryan's grandfather built it from the ground up with no money to his name when he came from Tipperary Ireland in 1953; it's been passed down from three generations someday. My sons will own it if they desires."

"So it must do a good business?"

"Very good. It's a tourist detestation listed as one of the top ten pubs in New York City. Ryan's weekly revenue is $45,000. On holiday weekends like this one, he can bring in over $65,000. Ryan loves to run specials in December every night. He has live music some nights it's local bands, other nights he brings in some famous band names, Ryan always has fresh fish and the freshest vegetables and some alcoholic drink, which he conjures up himself."

"Alright, so if I buy you a drink, will I get an answer?"

"Depends on how strong the drinks are, Amanda, my dear."

"Uh, you play dirty, Captain."

"I prefer to say I am Machiavellian, Amanda. We cops don't like to be referred to as dirty. I like to think I have a natural wit and slick operative skills."

"Fancy words aside, Olivia, you are cunning." "Aw, thank you, Amanda. I am touched."

"Uh, I am going to throw up so hard." Jet groans, rolling her eyes. "Cynical, are we Jet?" "No, I believe the word people would use this time of the year is Grinch, Amanda."

"Call it whatever you two want. It seems to me you two are doing a lot of dancing around too much fancy footwork when you can simply choose not to answer the question. Either you want Amanda to know your wish, or you don't. Why play footloose with the question?"

Olivia and I stare at Jet in shock and confusion as we stop at an intersection to wait for the light to change. "Boys, stay in our sight!" Noah and Ri have raced up ahead, weaving in between people picking up piles of snow to throw at each other, laughing. "I agree with Jet, even though I will gladly buy you a drink or two, Liv. It, however, appears you are trying to dodge the question."

"Well, Amanda, I could say the same for you, my dear, since I asked you the same question." the light changes, so we move with the mass crowd shivering. We pass by a catholic church whose bells are ringing, people streaming in and out of the church, the building is decorated to the nines with snowflakes, candles in every window, fake snow, and a beautiful Jesus in the manger nativity scene. Right outside on the corner is a Santa ringing a silver bell, "Ho Ho Ho," he calls out jolly. Next to him lies a homeless man with a sign-reading veteran who needs shelter and food.

The humane part of me wonders what this man has been through in his lifetime. How many friends has he lost in a war? How many tears he shed while he was forced to do unspeakable things on foreign lands, all in the name of freedom, liberty, or American Gold. How did someone who served our country, who gave up years of his life, dodging bombs which fell from the sky, and IEDs aimed to cut off limbs and end lives, now end up on the streets at Christmas time? Where are his parents, his wife, or kids? The woman inside me feels like crying at how cruelly our vets are treated. I pray for his soul, which must feel so defeated after years of self-sacrifice no one will lend him a helping hand up instead, he is reduced to street corners looking beat up by the years of hardship, his tired, baggy eyes reflect years of horror and pain most of us will never know. The dirt caked on him shows the difficulty of street life, his clothes are ripped, and blood drips from his arm, where a cut looks on the verge of infection.

People rush past him, never considering what this man must have suffered in his life to protect our land in the name of pride; where has the love gone for these men and women who serve our country without hesitation? They rush into a fire when most people run away; defend the red, white, and blue. They bled and died for American soil; these soldiers pay the price it costs for us to remain free. Now they are left alone, cold, hungry, penniless, and unable to get work because, without an address, no one will hire them; the government that holds all the damn power won't lift a finger to help them in their time of need. Looking at him now, I see the honor reflected in his eyes, the eagle flying proudly above the American flag. I picture him as a young man sent over to Vietnam or Afghanistan, a land not his own, scared to be on his own, leaving his family and friends behind heart-pounding fear causing tunnel vision, tense muscle spasms, rapid breathing, yet they fight they don't run away, these men and women forge through the blood, sweat, anxiety, and tears to keep us safe, they give their breath to save a life.

None of us would be safe without these American heroes. So how do we repay them when they come home from war? We leave them behind; they are the cost the price for our freedom. I instantly wonder how the war changed him. Did he suffer from flashbacks and PTSD? How did he channel his pain did he start drinking? Or turn to narcotics to nurse his pain, was he abusive to his kids or wife? I saw first hand the effects of war and the price our soldiers pay when they come home. My dad James Rollins was a Command Sergeant Major in the airborne ranger's first infantry. He was sent over to Vietnam at eighteen-years-old with nothing except a picture of my mama in his pocket. He was naive, unprepared thought he would crawl through some brush and mud and have stories of all the beautiful women swarming over him to tell when he returned.

My dad saw things he could never speak about; he left behind friends broken, bloody while he crawled away. Dad didn't go over there with grand illusions; he didn't do it for the fame or the money. He joined the army because he was a poor kid from farmer parents in a rural town with no desire to attend college. The military draft brought the war to the American home front. During the Vietnam War era, between 1964 and 1973, the U.S. military drafted 2.2 million American men out of an eligible pool of 27 million. My dad was one of those men, and he didn't run away. He joined the fight with twenty of his best friends from Loganville, GA. They put on the green and went to fight in a war. Most of us still don't understand why we were fighting. He went to war with a child like mind telling fart jokes and dreams of settling down with his girlfriend when he came home, he was clueless about the realities awaiting him.

When my dad came home, he was a different man who had seen the horrors war brings; he lost sixteen of his twenty friends and felt like a failure because he came home when they didn't. He wished he had died over there, not because he wanted to die. He wanted to honor his friends but didn't know how to do it when he wasn't over there. Part of my dad will always be that eighteen-year-old boy crawling through the hole covered in mud with his M-16. Back then, no one talked about PTSD. There were no treatments, PSA, or help, so he treated it himself with drinking and self-medicating; the drugs made him bitter and angry; the alcohol made him violent. He stole money from his parents, hit my mama; when I tried to defend her, I got the beatings. He lied to everyone could never hold down a job, so he turned to gambling to make money to support us; it would have been a good plan, except he sucked, so he was always left broken and in fear for his life because he owed some dangerous men. My dad would hear voices telling him to run solider run, so he spent his life running away from the troubles he created.

Fireworks sent him into a manic panic, something my younger sister Kimberly and I never understood when we were kids and set them off the way every kid in our town did on the fourth of July, memorial day. The sounds would send him flashing back to those days where he was crawling for his life in hundreds of degrees with a hundred-pound backpack on his back, bombs going off above his head, enemy fire surrounding him even years later. My dad swore he could taste the powder from his gun. He saw death in every single thought. When those fireworks went off, my dad suffered in ways I would never know until years later, when I became a cop. The things we see and are forced to do every day will change you. I can still feel the recoil from the first time I fired my gun and took someone's life; his eyes haunt me in my nightmares.

I know now what I never knew then, and my heart breaks for my dad, who could never break his addictions. Addictions that took him over like the devil and cost him as much as the war, which caused him to become addicted, and he passed on those addictions to myself and Kimberly. We never went to war, but we paid the price as much as he did. We don't wear the medals of a hero soldier, but we bear the scars of all the men who died from a war that ended years before either of us was born.

As I stare at this man whose name I don't know, I see the face of my oldest son Jericho James Rollins who prefers the nickname J.J. He'll be twenty-years-old next month, and he's been away for two years he joined the Airborne Rangers at eighteen-years-old. First, he did two six-month tours in Afghanistan; when those tours were done, they sent him to Iraq, where he's been there for over a year. There is no greater love than a man who lays down his life for another. I am so proud of my son, but I want him home as his mama. Being without him for two years has been a special hell. Now it's beyond my control if he is safe, fed, healthy. All I can do is pray to Jesus for my son to make it home safe.

Part of me, when I look at this man, however, is cynical. It could be the history with my dad, or being a New Yorker for ten years now and a cop on top of it, but I can't help to wonder if he is homeless because he spent all his money on drugs and is looking to score again tonight not looking for food or shelter simply a high.

The human part of me wins, though, so I go over to him and drop a ten-dollar bill in his bucket. "Merry Christmas, sir, and thank you for your service. If you need a meal, there is a pub down the street. Tipperary's the owner's name is Ryan. Tell him I sent you. It would be an honor to serve you a meal tonight. Free."

Shock appears in his eyes which fill with tears as he stares at the only dollar in his bucket mine. "Thank You, Ma'am, and God Bless. It was my honor to serve this great country. I am a proud American soldier until the day I die. I will take you up on that offer tonight. It's been weeks since I have had a proper meal."

Olivia joins me, rubbing my back, dropping a twenty into his bucket. "God Bless you, Sir." I see the look of question in my son's eyes. "Why did you give him money, mama? Why won't he get a job? Instead of being lazy?"

"How do you know he hasn't tried, son? No one knows another person's story if they haven't walked in their shoes. Getting a job requires a physical address, getting a place to live requires money. They cancel each other out. Many employers would never consider hiring someone homeless; there are too many misconceptions. Most homeless people don't have phones to be contacted even if they get a job, so there's no way for someone to give them a job; most can't find a place to shower and keep themselves looking neat and clean, which is another turn off for employers. I gave this man money because it is not our place to judge Ri. People are struggling now more than ever; we could all use a little healing. Christmas is about giving back, seeing other people find a little joy, comfort, and love. I am blessed to afford a roof over our heads, food on our table, and nice clothes on our backs. When I have a little extra, I give to those less fortunate."

"I guess all our hearts could use something to believe in, mama, and what better time to help us remember than the magic of Christmas."

Snow has fallen gently across the streets of New York, creating a magical chilled experience. It's thirty-two degrees out. Noah slides on a trash can lid, laughing as he catches snow in his palms, spinning around and around; the joy and wonder on his face make him so precious he sticks his tongue out to catch falling flakes.

The nighttime sky shines down in a pitch of blackness. We can't see the stars due to all the bright lights of the buildings, but I sense them shining down on us. All around us, Christmas is in the air store windows decorated in bright blinking lights, scenes of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus, snowflakes, polar bears, candy canes that hang from poles, tinsel wrapped around benches, and trees strung with every colored light. Hanukkah Menorah's blink in windows of apartments, Rudolph and his reindeer's stand ready in front of a big department store blinking in front of Santa's Sleigh. A big sign covered in LED lights blinks out: Joy, Peace, and Love.

I've lived here for ten years, and I still feel like a child when I walk through the streets of New York during the holiday season. New York City is beautiful. There is magic in the city that never sleeps; the spirit that fills the air at this time of the year is fantastic. The atmosphere is indescribable between the sights, the smells of New York fresh-baked bread, cinnamon, and sugar cookies, candy canes, pine from all the trees, hot dogs from various street vendors, pizza from local shops, BBQ and Fish, the sweet smell of caramelized, sugar-coated peanuts, almonds, cashews, etc. It's hard to resist, even if they're all stuck together in one big mound. Ri can't resist. He runs right over to the stands, turning to me with his big cyan eyes. "Please, mama!"

Grinning, I reach into my pocket and hand the man a ten-dollar bill. Ri jumps up and down, exceedingly happy. "I will take the honey roasted cashews, please, and thank you, kind sir." there's an innocence to his wonder and delight, which is hard to ignore. Seeing Christmas through the eyes of a child is phenomenal. Tonight, there is a beautiful chill in the air. It's not freezing, but it's not warm either. It's perfect to create the feeling of wonder and delight on Christmas Eve.

Tonight will be perfect for snuggling on the couch with my son and pet, watching Hallmark movies, and sipping hot chocolate, and counting the blessings Jesus has given me surrounded by the beautiful decorations inside my home which have been passed down by generations of Rollins. Christmas Carol fills the air coming from every store and some homes. It's a mixture of styles the way only New Yorkers can do. Idina Menzel blasts from one store, TLC, Mariah Carey and Billie Holiday, Carrie Underwood, and Lady A come from other stores and homes. "Okay, Olivia, you win. My Christmas wish is to have my son safe and home from this damn war and find love this year. Not some one-night stand who will fill my bed for a few hours, no, I want a genuine love. Someone who respects what I do and loves my sons like their own sons."

"I'm sorry, Amanda. You deserve to have someone who respects and loves you for everything you are, sweetie. I wish it weren't so hard for you to find someone who treats you like the queen you are, dear."

"It's okay, Liv; I am kind of used to it having two sons out-of-wedlock raising them on my own, plus add being a detective, which requires long, unpredictable hours. Most people don't have the patience for a life like mine."

"I understand, Amanda. Trust me; I am fifty-six, a mother to a young child, and the captain of one of the most elite squads in NYC. It's been years since I have had a lasting relationship."

"Well, you both beat me." Jet mutters; both of us look over at her slightly in shock since I know I had forgotten she was even with us till the moment she spoke. "How do we have you beat, Jet? You're twenty-three; you have all the time in the world to fall in love."

Jet's cheeks turn a solid crimson, a beautiful color that lights up her normally pasty complexion. Her soft brown eyes look down in shame. She is pushing back her raven waist-length hair—Jet sighs. "I've never even been kissed. Not one person has ever asked me out, and I was always too shy to ask anyone I liked out myself. Growing up, I had leukemia, which meant I spent most of my time in hospitals missing out on school and building friendships. My friends were cancer kids, most of whom didn't win their fights. Off and on from the time I was six years old till I was sixteen, I battled leukemia."

"My cancer was so rare and hard to treat. I had to go to seven different hospitals. I was sick all the time. Morning, noon, and night medication and treatments filled my day. I was scared, lonely and desperately ill, away from home most of the time. No one wants to kiss a bald teenager who has been throwing up all day. I focused all my attention on school. Thankfully, I could do most of it online and I have an exceptionally high I.Q. So school was easy for me. Because I didn't have any friends, I spent most of my time online learning everything I could about cyberspace. Most of the friendships I made were online friends, which makes dating or kissing impossible. I couldn't meet up with them because we were kids and couldn't afford to make the trips, and I had to isolate, anyway."

"Wow, Jet, I did not know you went through so much; you would never know by looking at you now. I'm sorry that was rude."

"No, it's fine. You're right. You couldn't look at me and tell they diagnosed me two days ago with Ovarian cancer."

Olivia and I stare in confusion at Jet, who doesn't look up to meet our eyes. The way her shoulders shrink down and she kicks at the snow on the ground, I can see she's struggling to hold her composer together. "I'm sorry I wasn't intended to say anything tonight; it's Christmas Eve. I don't want to bring anyone's mood down. I just wanted you to understand as hard as it has been for you two, it's been harder for me. I'm twenty-three facing my eighth round of cancer treatment, and I am raising two teenage boys alone."

Every part of me wants to ask Jet why she is raising her teenage twin brothers by herself. Where are her parents? Does she have any support system to deal with this latest struggle? Instead, I throw my arm over her shoulders. "I know it feels hopeless, Jet. Instead of focusing on what you are missing out on, focus on everything you have accomplished. You are one of the youngest third-grade detectives in the NYPD; you have single handily helped build the NYPD's technical division into the beast it is now. What you have become has taken dedication, sacrifice, and intelligence. I'm sorry you have suffered through so much, and I know you are scared and lonely, but you are not alone, Jet. We are always by your side, and I know Ayanna and Elliot will be as well. Do they know?"

Jet's face burns a brighter shade of crimson at the mention of her Lieutenant Ayanna Bell. "No, I didn't want to ruin any of their Christmases."

"Aw, shit, you like Ayanna, don't you?"

"What? No way. I mean, sure, she's beautiful and smart and a total bad-ass. I admire her. She's my boss. Don't look at me in that way, Rollins. You are applying. I like her differently. I don't no... I am not you crushing on your captain."

"I'm sorry. What did she say, Amanda? You have a crush on me?"

My entire body freezes as I feel Olivia's eyes staring at me. I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was attempting to dip my toes into the water, then suddenly, someone had pushed me in headfirst into the icy waters. I can't even force myself to turn to see Olivia. Is she mad, shocked, disgusted, or confused? Did Olivia even know I consider myself bisexual? I can't stop my heart racing or my stomach from churning painfully. Coming out is a lifelong process that happens repeatedly, not just once. It should always be my choice, though who I tell, when I tell them, or if I tell them having Jet out me feels like someone has slapped me in the face in below zero weather.

I can't hear the music anymore. All I hear is the deafening silence of all my dreams being shattered. Will I ever be able to look at Olivia and not feel total humiliation? I look back towards the area we just left, trying to get my senses together, and when I look up, I see the twinkling of three million crystals blinking back at me. Jet's voice comes back to me from earlier. "Did you know the star represents our greatest ambitions for hope, unity, and peace?" Where is Christmas now, and why can't I find her? How could a straightforward joke take her away; where has she gone away to? Where is the laughter I heard only moments before? Why can't I hear the music play?

Quietly, I say a prayer to the star and Jesus. "With the quietest of desires, I have desired the impossible. Father forgive me; I am a fool of my heart's desires. Jesus develop the depth of love inside of me, the same love as Christ loved in me. And Lord, I pray they may permit me to share that love with a true and lasting soul-mate. Father, I have fallen in and out of love before. Still, I pray I may develop a new and extraordinary depth of love that comes only through You so that at the right time, You would bring into my life that their love of You only exceeds kindred spirit and soul-mate, whose love for me. I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, who loved me and gave His life for me. Guide me with your star, Jesus, so I may find hope, peace, and love. In your name, I pray. Amen. Oh, Lord, please fill my heart with understanding and forgiveness, so I don't kill thy neighbor, Jet, for she knows not what she did. Give me a moment of peace, so I can forgive and move forward. Hallelujah, and Amen."