Her gaze is sharp enough to cut Beca's resolve as she approaches, her strides smooth and confident. Her defeat did nothing to waver how she holds herself, that is apparent. With each step she takes, Beca feels the glass in her hand slicken, sweat pricking at her palms. It makes her wish she had a chance to rub them on her jeans, but she is being watched and she stays in her current position, leaning against the bar. Does she look casual enough? Relaxed? She doesn't feel it.
"Little mouse," the Kommissar greets and Beca places her liquor on the bar, afraid it is at an even higher risk of winding up on the floor now the German is closer. She's so tall in her heels and Beca feels her stomach tilt as much as her neck as meets eyes blue enough to be a piece of the sky. They are dark. Clouded.
"My proper title is World Champion, thank you," she manages, wishing to pat herself on the back for sounding partially suave. Kommissar chuckles and Beca is not ready for the sound. Just as quickly as she congratulated herself, Beca berates herself as she says, "Your laugh is so wonderful."
"At least you are kind to those you defeat. In your place, I would be, what do you call it...rubbing it in? I suppose I misjudged you. I'm not so easily surprised, but you have done it. Glückwünsche."
"Oh, it's cool. Most people misjudge me. They see me and think I'm a bitter hipster, but I'm just one-hundred percent bitter." She laughs at her own joke, the nervousness only becoming more vicious. Kommissar watches her without remark and pulls out a wallet from her tight pants. How will she ever get them off? Beca has some ideas...
"Let me buy you a drink, to celebrate what I begrudgingly admit is a well-earned victory."
"Uh...sure."
Beca decides not to mention her half-finished glass and turns to order something, but Kommissar is already handing her a shot of tequila. She is aware that she has plans tomorrow morning and shouldn't drink too heavily, but the German is holding out the shot and she jumps at the chance to feel her skin for just a second. Their fingers brush. Soft.
"Thanks." She gulps the shot and flinches, but the burn subsides as she sees Kommissar down her own shot swiftly. Her neck is exposed and the alcohol hits Beca much deeper than she expects. Or maybe that was something else. A tightening in her stomach, maybe lower, twists and heaves, as Kommissar drinks. Her head falls, eyes suddenly brighter, a smirk twisting her lips as she waves down the bartender and buys another round.
At some point, Beca remembers Kommissar's arm coiling around her shoulders, hip bumping her waist. Such long legs. A warm body presses into her and her head spins as much as the room does. She may have danced. Her friends are dots on a wavering horizon and she is leaving, the heavy warmth at her side dragging her, coaxing her. Somewhere in the haze of the night, there is more warmth, heat, burning, and the faint scent of cinnamon follows her into the morning.
The throbbing in Beca's skull is a metronome topped with a hammer, slamming down rhythmically, painfully. She groans into her pillow and shifts, only to notice then that there's something on top of her. Her eyes snap open as she realises that she has no shirt on and there is only bare skin meeting bare skin. Well, shit. A splitting headache and a body in her bed could only mean she had gotten very wasted and done something very bad. She is facing a window, overlooking Copenhagen. But this is not her room. She doesn't recognise the angle of the view, or the decor. That suitcase isn't hers. She sees the clothes strewn about wildly and is daring enough to try and slip out from under the arm she feels around her.
No such luck. As she moves, the hold tightens and her ear is met with a grunt. An electric pulse erupts in her stomach and she takes in a breath, somehow recognising the sound. She had heard it a lot last night, but that is all she can remember. Deciding to be bold, Beca rolls over and finds Kommissar next to her, just as naked as she is and still thankfully asleep.
Beca lifts the blanket and shamelessly scans over the woman's body. She really is flawless. Before she can stop herself, Beca says, "Fuck." The startled curse stirs Kommissar and she opens her eyes. Beca's heart races. She messed up. She should've rolled out of bed, gathered her clothes and left. She could've avoided the German for the rest of her trip, avoided this entire situation, but her lecherous impulses had put her right here, right under a heavily toned arm, right under the satisfied gaze of a very pampered cat.
"Good morning, mouse," Kommissar says, her voice husky and her smile wide. "It would appear we have done something unspeakably naughty."
"Fuck me," is all Beca grumbles. She feels her face go red as she quickly untangles herself from the other woman and reaches for her...ripped shirt. How did it rip? Was Kommissar that desperate to get her naked?
"I believe that already happened."
"Jeez, did you plan this or something? You seem way too proud," Beca says, throwing her shirt at Kommissar. She misses and it lands on the carpet near her wallet.
"You may not think it the truth, but I only wished to have fun last night. Had I not been in a drunken stupor, I would most definitely not have taken advantage of you. I'm not like that, mouse, you must know. I only woke up with a smile because it is not every day I find such a beautiful woman in my bed. I apologise."
"Beautiful? Me? Have you seen your abs? Steel isn't even that firm, God," Beca says as she tugs on her pants, nearly tripping in the process. Her head hurts too much to absorb all of this. She snatches her shirt from its misfired landing.
"Are you okay, Beca?"
"No! I have a boyfriend! I've never been with a woman! Shit, fuck, I was meant to meet the Bellas, like, two hours ago! I can't even-" Beca struggles to put her shirt on, and soon her frustrated ranting dissolves into sobbing. "I fucked up," she cries from within the confines of her tangled shirt.
Kommissar stands from the bed, the blanket falling. She helps Beca put her shirt on, fingering the tear up the side. "I can give you another shirt."
"Don't touch me," Beca snaps, pulling away and collecting the rest of her things.
She storms out of the room, gradually working her way out of the hotel and onto the busy street. She has no idea how she got here, or how far her own hotel is, so she hopes Google Maps can help her find her way back, but as she reaches for her phone, she finds she had not put it in her pocket like she had thought. She must've tossed it somewhere out of sight last night.
A tap on her shoulder turns her around and there is Kommissar, disheveled and grim and still somehow so tall even without shoes on. It's almost odd to see her in clothes that aren't black. She holds out Beca's phone with a frown.
"I'm sorry," she says. She then produces a dark cardigan and she drapes it over Beca's shoulders. It covers the damage done to her shirt and is too long for her, but it is a gesture the Bella uncomfortably accepts. Without another word, Kommissar turns and goes back into the hotel. Beca watches her and feels tears sting her eyes once more.
Kommissar won in the end.
AN: This may be continued