Not Your Type (Chris Pine FanFic)

Chelsea

It had been a long day, the kind of day that ended with hair tied up in a messy ponytail, fingers smudged with sticky remnants of work, and throbbing feet. Chelsea had no desire to ride her bike to the bus stop, load it onto the bus, and make the hour-plus trek home after the long day, but there was no choice. So here she sat, in the sticky seat next to the smelly man, forcing her eyelids to stay open.

She focused on her reflection in the smudged bus window. Her makeup was slightly runny, causing a mild raccoon eye. Her hair stuck out in every different direction possible due to the massive amounts of sweat and hairspray on each strand. The ponytail and wild hair drew attention to the long scar on the side of her face. The deep red scar traced her hairline, starting at the left side of her choppy bangs and ending at the middle of her ear.

She hated that scar, but here in her sleepy state it provided a nice distraction. Lazily, she traced it with her finger. She had little memory of how she got the scar, despite the world trying desperately to remind her. There was little feeling, which was evident as she poked it. A sigh escaped her lips as she was reminded of what a terrible metaphor this was for her life.

It seemed like daily her therapist reminded her of her need to feel and discussion, despite her need to do the exact opposite. Perhaps that was exaggeration. Therapist is a stretch, child therapist who happened to be her roommate was more accurate. Stupid, stupid roommate who will not mind his own business, Chelsea thought.

Tracing the scar and trying desperately to remember what everyone else did turned to deep, searing feelings of anger toward Drew. Drew the Mr.Fix-It of a roommate who refused to let her heal in her own time. Drew, who despite the kindness of letting her move in to his apartment after his straight-up crazy wife left him for the dog sitter, still drove her nuts. His insatiable need to fix her crazy, sad, screwed-up life frustrated her to no end. Most days she didn't feel that crazy, sad or screwed up. 

Her finger jammed painfully into the scar. Ha, that's a feeling, she thought as she noticed the bus had come to an abrupt stop a few blocks before her stop. Traffic, as was typical, was at a standstill. She pulled the cord notifying the driver of her desire to get off. Carefully gathering her bag, she made her way to the back of the bus, unhooked her bike, and rode the half-mile home to the house she shared with Drew, her unofficial therapist, and Aaron his wacky therapist friend.

It was Thursday, this meant football in their household. The trio grew up in three distinctively different areas of the US as children and thus had very different loyalties. Drew grew up deep in the heart of Texas (where he later met Chelsea in college) and therefore cheered on the Cowboys, as most true Texans due, through gritted teeth. Drew denied he was a Cowboys fan, though he reused to miss any game. Aaron was an east coast boy, growing up in Rhode Island before relocating to California when his dad received a promotion. He refused to pledge allegiance to a west coast team, so he cheered for Tom Brady and the Patriots. He could only name Brady on the team. That fact infuriated both Chelsea and Drew. They lived in Texas for large portions of their lives, so football was huge to them. Chelsea could watch the sport on mute and tell you the refs calls based solely on handsignals. This won her many dates in college. That is until the Texan boys learned she was raised in Denver and proudly wore orange and blue before Peyton Manning made it cool.

Chelsea was wearing a cheap, faded Manning t-shirt she bought at Wal-Mart the day after it was announced John Elway's wining and dining had paid off. It was an ugly shirt, but it was lucky. It saw many wins so far this season. After adjusting the shirt she rolled the bike up the steps. She was watching her feet when she noticed crummy sneakers in front of her own.

"Go straight inside and put on that pink lipstick that gives you crazy amounts of confidence."

Her eyes shot up at Aaron. "What are you talking about?"

"And you might want to change." Chelsea watched as her roommate looked her over. It was strange.

"Aaron, this is exactly why you do not have a girlfriend. You never, under any circumstances tell a girl to put ON makeup or to change her clothes. How about a, 'Hey Chels, good to see you. How was your day? You might want to clean up before the game?' That sounds better. Even a hello would suffice." She looked at her frazzled roommate who suddenly put his large hands on her small shoulders.

"Trust me, Chels. Go upstairs, wash up, change, and put on your f-me lipstick."

"My WHAT?!" Chelsea said, agast. 

"Just do it." And with that floppy, blond curls bounced back in to the house leaving her to hang the bike in the garage by herself.

Chelsea furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and decided to take the door from the garage inside and to slip upstairs to clean up. It led directly to the kitchen, so she could sneak in without being seen in her messy state.  But Aaron had another thing coming if he expect her to change out of her lucky Manning jersey.  

After making her way to her room as speedily as possible, she shed her work pants and the lucky Manning tee. She shook her hair free so it fell in giant waves around her shoulders. Aaron is acting bizarre, that was for sure, but does this bizarre behavior really warrant a shower? Chelsea stood, practically naked, in her bathroom contemplating cleaning up. On any other day this would be a no-brainer. Always say yes to showers so you don't smell. However, it was Thursday and kickoff was in less than thirty minutes. If Aaron felt it was so important for her to apply makeup she would need at least five to accurately put on that stupid bright pink lip stain. Curse Sephora and their samples for making me fall in love with that little tube of paint. 

Chelsea shook her head. No shower, Peyton Manning was more important. Eric Decker was more important, he couldn't smell her and she could enjoy his hotness through the TV. She smiled fondly at the thought of Decker as she grabbed her face wash. With in 10 minutes she felt refreshed and more awake. 

"Garcia are you going to make salsa?" Drew beat on her bedroom door and shouted. 

"I just got home, give me a few minutes to change." She rolled her eyes at her reflection. Salsa or lipstick, which was more important? She applied toner and a lightly tinted moisturizer, mascara followed and she stared at the pink tube that from this moment forward would be knowns as her f-me lip stain. Unless Eric Decker was sitting on her couch there was no need for that. She applied a light gloss, some faintly scented lotion, and redid the ponytail. She grabbed the Manning shirt and went for a fresh pair of jeans in her closet. Shoes were as unnecessary as the pink lip-goo. 

"Screw it," she declared firmly to her reflection as she switched off the lights and headed downstairs to make her stolen family recipe for salsa.