A/N: Originally written for the Porn Battle IX. Please enjoy!

Too many years, too many cases, too many victims, too much stress, not enough communication, no proper outlet for their frustration, too much time spent together; they could blame it on any or all of the above but no matter what it is it shouldn't surprise her that it all culminates in him preparing to fuck her against the cold and grimy tiles of the locker room showers. Again.

The first time it happened it was easy enough to write it off as a one-time thing; a mistake. But the second time was less so, and by the third, fourth, fifth times it became a sort of ritual, something that integrated itself into their routine like a tick wriggling its way under someone's skin, becoming a regular occurrence. Regular, yet somehow unplanned because it wasn't like they talked about it – they hardly ever talked about anything anymore unless it had to do with a case – yet they still knew just when to show up to find the other waiting for them. That shouldn't surprise her either; they've always had a sort of unspoken communication thing going between them, but lately they haven't been so in synch with each other. (Though, if she's honest with herself, it hasn't been just lately; this is something that has been a long time coming, both the faulty communication and the sex.)

She knows that this is a bad idea – moronic, in fact – and if she had any sense she would walk away. A few years ago, she'd like to think she would have. But she doesn't, not now. And she doesn't want to because she's sick of trying to keep track of the ever shifting dynamic between them. She doesn't want to think about the way things are changing again. How all of a sudden he's so interested in her – where as before he seemed to ignore her for a time – like he's suddenly afraid of losing her (Hell, she's only been hanging around for the past 11 years). It's funny because it is almost as if she's his wife when, in reality, his wife is sitting at home with his 5 children while he is here pressing her back against the wall.

He tears the wrapper off of the condom that he procured from God-knows-where without severing the greedy connection he has made between their mouths. Between them she can feel him slipping on the latex and positioning himself and after a few more seconds of ravaging her mouth with his tongue, he breaks the kiss.

His eyes bore into hers, making every hair on her body stand on end with the crackling static of tension, as he thrusts roughly into her, the force and friction of jolting her back to reality and causing her to cry out. His eyes don't leave hers as he begins to move inside her and it's a vulgar thought, but she can't help wondering if he ever fucks his wife like this. She's guessing that the answer is no because the sheer intensity in his slate eyes is almost enough to make even her nervous, and she's been working with it for over a decade.

Her hips move, almost of their own accord, in perfect synchronization with his and it amazes her how effortless this is with him. He is already close; she can feel it in the way his muscles tense under her fingers as she runs them down her back - careful not to scrape him with her nails because Kathy would notice if she marked him. His hand sneaks between them rubbing hard and rapid circles on her clit, trying to get her off. She throws her head back and groans as he shifts her, hands on her hips, driving himself deeper inside of her and hitting that perfect spot at just the right angle. (He knows exactly where it is and how to get to it by now.) He pulls almost completely out of her and rams back in, initiating the combustion of something tight deep within her. She releases with sparks, clenching and unclenching convulsively around him. He is only a few seconds behind, letting out a low moan as he shoots even more heat into her and for a moment everything is blurry. It obviously affects him too, as his legs give out and he collapses heavily on top of her, crushing her under his weight.

"El," she says to the part of his shoulder that is practically in her mouth now. He gets the message and shifts to the side, falling heavily into the corner of the shower. He's breathing like he does after they run, only harder and she swears she can hear his heart pounding, or maybe it's hers. They're almost too old for this shit.

The water raining from the shower head has long gone cold by the time their breathing returns to normal, and he reaches over to turn it off as he saunters out of the shower.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," he points toward the lockers, "you coming?"

"Yeah, I'll be there in a second," her knees are still shaking. He nods.

Once upon a few years ago, when he was going through his divorce, she thought that they might finally become something more than what they already were, more than just partners. And everyone knew that there was the potential for something more between them; "What's up with Benson and Stabler?" had become an age old question by that point. But then she got roped into her undercover stint in Oregon and when she came back, he had changed. Actually, they both had changed and suddenly she didn't know what they were anymore. When she thought they were close to figuring out things between them, his wife came back to him – pregnant, of course – and things shifted again. They had been changing sporadically ever since then, like the universe was taunting her by keeping certainty and stability just out of her reach.

Now she still didn't know what they were, but whatever it was, she knew that it was all that they would ever be: Partners who have a quickie in the locker room before heading home to their own respective lives. Nothing more, nothing less. And that should have surprised her, except it didn't. Not one bit.