A/N: I had to take a break from my BBT/Glee crossover. So I made a fanfic that's rare: a Santana/Artie comfort. Enjoy!
Santana was a slut. Yeah, already knew that.
But she was smart. If anyone bothered to look at her grades, they would know she really liked History, and was pretty good with math.
That's how she got into AP Calculus with a mister Artie Abrams.
They sat in the way back.
"Sup, Wheels," she said as an informal greeting as he wheeled himself in.
"Santana," he said, with a nod.
They didn't speak for another three days.
"Mr. Panne sucks," Artie said.
"Yeah," Santana said.
That's it. Small talk, containing two sentences. Then doing their work.
Quinn and Santana had a talk though.
"You know what, Santana? You're a slut. Whore. Prostitute."
"Look who's talking, preggo christ." Santana spit on the floor.
"Yes, I've had my times. But you're just a cold, heartless, robot programmed to just sleep around!"
Sure, Santana threw her fists and they had another huge fight. But those words stuck with her. Cold. Heartless.
She was thinking about that when she came into Calculus the next period.
She was thinking about that when she started silently crying. Only Artie could see her tears.
"Santana?"
"What, handicapped?" Santana asked.
"Well, I'm more of a technical person than an emotional person, but I can tell when a person is sad."
Santana sighed. She thought, Artie was the only person she could tell her problems too without there being a huge controversy. Matt had moved, Cedes and Kurt were blabbermouths, Rach-she didn't even want to think about that-, and Puck would just shut her up and tell her to take off her shirt.
"Artie, am I slut?"
Artie was taken aback by the question. He thought about telling her all of the men she's slept with, but he knew she needed a friend. Also, it was the first time she's called him by his actual name.
"Of course not, Santana."
"Then why do I 'sleep around' so much?" She asked.
"Probably because you're afraid to have a real relationship, so you make up for it with these one night flings."
Santana took a deep breath. "On any other day, I would push you off that damn chair, Artie."
"I know," Artie allowed. "But this isn't any other day. You're feeling vulnerable, and you need comfort. But you know what? You're a pretty amazing person, Santana."
Santana pulled her head out from her arms. "Where did you get your degree in psychology?"
Artie laughed softly. "Nowhere. My mom thought the car accident would cause my some 'trauma', what with being in a wheelchair and all, so she sent me to a therapist. I guess all of her psychological wisdom rubbed off on me."
Santana smirked. "You're not too shabby, Artie."
"The name's Abrams. Artie. Abrams," Artie said. Santana snorted really loudly. Everyone in their Calculus class turned around, eyes on Santana.
"What are you looking at?" She snapped. They flinched, and turned back around.
"Wow," Artie said. "Commanding." Santana shrugged.
"It comes with the foxy attitude," she said. Artie laughed, much softer than Santana, then went back to his work.
After a few minutes, Santana whispered, "Hey, Artie?"
His head snapped up. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Artie was lying in bed later that night, just thinking. He had seen the fight with Quinn and Santana. He thought Quinn was somewhat nice and all, but he sided with Santana this time.
She wasn't heartless. Just misunderstood.
Santana looked in her mirror. She called herself a whore to her face. Slut. Bitch. Then she stopped, and stared back at herself in the mirror.
"You're an amazing person, Santana," she whispered. A grin spread across her face.