Undefined

Summary: When Detective Rick Rodgers moved back to New York from LA to take a job at the NYPD 12th Precinct, the one thing he expected less than being haunted by his predecessor's cases, was to be living with her ghost.

Undefined (adj)- (1) without fixed limits; indefinite in form, extent, or application. (2) not given meaning or significance.

Chapter 1

The opening notes of Jingle Bell Rock filtered into the hall as Rick Rodgers slid the key into the lock of his brand new rental. The building super had looked as if he had grown a second head when Rick had told him that he wanted to move in on Christmas Eve. But he couldn't spend another minute, let alone another major holiday, in that city or that short term pre-furnished apartment. Lucky for him, one apartment had just come available- again, the super had drawled as he dabbed a yellow grey handkerchief on the shiny bald dome of his head. Three tenants in the past year the man wheezed, waddling down the hall of the fifth floor, well-kept but faded carpet muffling his heavy gait.

It was a decent building, nothing fancy, but a far step up from the usual dwellings of New York City cops. In fact, most would consider it a steal. Five blocks away from the Twelfth Precinct, a 24-hour bodega and Chinese restaurant below, not to mention the liquor store on the corner. It was detective heaven.

The door creaked open and Rick stepped inside, flicking the switch to illuminate the space. Three doors down the neighbor's party rocked on, drunken laughter and chatter filtering through the thin apartment walls, the base from the speakers vibrating the floorboards with every thump of raucous holiday medley. Lack of soundproofing aside, it was perfect.

"Good luck, man," the super muttered from the hallway. "Number's on the fridge if you need me. Try not to until the new year."

The door slammed shut and Rick looked around, his battered leather duffle bag landing with a thump at his feet. The one bedroom apartment was fully furnished with kitchenware to spare. The purple couch and towering bookcases were not his usual tastes but they would work until he could afford a new place, or at least new furnishings. The plastic bag in his hand landed in a pile on the kitchen island, and his fingers tapped on the countertop as he circled the room. A monogrammed mug adorned with a swirling K sat in the Keurig on the counter and Rick picked it up, gently tossing it from palm to palm as he sauntered out of the kitchen and into the living room. A desk stood in the corner nestled under a shuttered window, topped with a lamp, a couple pens in a holder, and a layer of dust. Rows of empty bookshelves, the couch, a large oval coffee table filled the rest of the main room—he knocked on the top with one fist. Solid wood, not a cheap Swedish one. Nice.

He stepped into the bedroom and nodded at the queen bed in the middle of the space. More bookshelves lined the walls. The previous tenant really loved to read, he'd give them that. The claw foot tub in the bathroom had him nodding again. Definitely not bad for a sublease.

Rick padded back to the kitchen. He took a cautionary sniff at the mug and swirled the hem of his T-shirt around the inside, wiping away any dust before sliding it onto the counter next to the plastic bag and pulling out a bottle of scotch. Pouring two fingers into the porcelain he picked up the mug once again and walked it and the bottle over to couch. Plopping down onto the surprisingly comfortable cushion, he toed off his shoes, and stretched his six-foot-three frame, propping his heels on the coffee table. "All I Want for Christmas" warbled in from down the hall and Rick raised his cup in salute to the empty room.

"To a fresh start," he mused. "And to you, K, whoever you are. Thanks for the fine last minute living arrangements and cutlery."

He downed the scotch in a swift gulp and leaned forward to pour another serving into the mug. The scotch glugged out of the bottle as he counted in his head. One extra glug for good measure and he leaned back, his head resting on the top of the couch. "Welcome home, Ricky."

Rick groaned, one hand flying up to rub his eyes as his phone twittered and danced in his pocket. Pulling it out, he jammed his thumb against the top button, forcing the alarm silent for the next nine minutes. Morning sunlight streamed in through the window, beams dancing along the polished, dented, oak planks of the floor. Specks of dust swirled up, and Rick pushed himself up on the couch, feet swinging to the floor. The couch may be purple but at least it was comfortable.

Rick stretched his arms up over his head as he stood, hips moving from side to side, and bent forward and back, his vertebrae popping in satisfying succession. Comfortable or not, his forty-two-year-old joints could only stand so much. He reached down to gather his cup and the remainder of the bottle of scotch off the coffee table, a frown creasing his face when he found the surface empty.

He squinted around the apartment, blunt fingernails scratching mindlessly at the crease of his left butt cheek. The cup, washed, was sitting back in its place in the Keurig, K facing out. With a pit stop by the door to pick up his backpack, Rick wandered to the kitchen. The bottle of scotch lay in the sink, empty. He must have drank more than he thought, if he had blacked out doing the dishes. With a final sigh he trudged toward the bathroom. A shower and some coffee then it was off to the first day at his new job.

"New city, new year, new job. New you, Ricky." He muttered, pulling the lock box from his bag and placing it on top of the long dresser across from the foot of the bed.

Rick stripped off his shirt and pants, dropping them on his way to the shower, and turned the knob as far as it would go, stepping into the scalding spray. "You don't need anyone but you."

The 12th Precinct was a ghost town. A couple of voices could be heard muttering in between shrill rings of phones on the vacant desks, but the air of the over-sized room felt heavy even with the presence of the twinkling Christmas lights and row of miniature stockings on the wall. Glitter puff paint inscribed various names on the white cuffs.

"You must be Detective Rodgers." A thin woman in a stark suit and razor thin heels strode out of the corner office and across the vacant bullpen toward him, her ebony hair falling in waves to her shoulders. "Victoria Gates, Captain of the Twelfth, it's nice to finally meet you. Thank you so much for being able to start on such short notice, especially on the holiday. I know you probably wanted to be with your family."

"No problem." Rick replied, ignoring the rock that splashed in his stomach. "I actually don't have any family in the city, so I'm happy to help be here so others can be with theirs."

Gates gave a brief nod around an overly gracious smile, and Rick looked away from the pity in her eyes, gaze traveling from desk to desk instead. "Why don't you come into my office. HR left the paperwork for you to sign and I'll get you your badge and gun and then you can pick out your desk."

Twenty minutes later Rick walked back into the bullpen. The pad of his left thumb pressed into his right palm, massaging out the cramp. Based on the number of times he had signed and initialed, he wouldn't be surprised if the NYPD actually owned his soul by now. A couple more detectives sat hunched behind desks as Rick sauntered through the room, the weight of the gun and badge on his belt making him feel at home once again.

He spied an empty desk out of the corner of his eye and turned to edge his way down the narrow aisle. Right in the middle of the bullpen, a whiteboard at its side. Perfect.

"Not that one."

The snap of tenor startled him and Rick pivoted on the spot, his eyes locking with those of the stocky Hispanic detective perched at the desk an aisle over.

"Sorry," Rick apologized out of reflex, his gaze turning once again to scan the desk, coming up with nothing except a parade of elephants. "I didn't see a nameplate."

"Doesn't mean it's up for grabs."

Rick gave a curt nod, eyes falling once again to the porcelain figurine perched on the desk, between the black phone and blank computer screen. A thin layer of dust coated the whole surface. Some people weren't ready to be forgotten.

"Esposito!" Gates called from the doorway of her office and the detective lumbered to his feet. "Detective Rodgers will be working with you and Ryan until I can find him a permanent partner. Make sure he learns the ropes."

"Yes, Sir." Esposito nodded in reply, his arms crossing over his chest the moment Gates' door clicked shut. "Okay, new guy. There's an empty desk in the back. It's all yours. Welcome to the Twelfth. Don't screw up."

"Welcome indeed." Rick muttered as he plopped down in the wobbly chair in the dark back corner of the floor, and dusted off the rusty desk with the palm of his hand. Merry Freaking Christmas to you too."

A/N: Wow, it's been awhile, but hopefully it won't be too hard to get back into the writing game. This story is already about half written, so I hope it won't hit too many posting snags. I hope those of you reading enjoy the ride!- AS.