Negro, a Breaking Bad fanfic
by Golden Snowflake

xXxXx

The door screeches unceremoniously behind him and suddenly I'm self-conscious: aware of how I whistle when I blow the pungent-sweet smoke out of my mouth; aware of where my arm is sitting against my waist. The birds seem far away and his silhouette burns into the back of my head where I think he's standing.

Next the unmistakable sound of fingers fumbling into a pack for the one that feels just right against your skin. The fwoosh.

A silence that lasts a thousand years as I scrutinize my cigarette.

"Oh, hey."

The telltale feeling in my stomach when I know I'd like something to happen that isn't going to. "Hey yourself."

"So listen. My, uh, my name's not really Jesse Jackson."

For some reason this doesn't insult me as much as it should. "Hmm."

"It's Jesse Pinkman, and that guy you met … he's, uh, he's not my dad."

Now why doesn't that surprise me?

I'm doing a pretty good job of acting like I don't give a shit. Smoke wafts up into the air, and I exchange a breath of it for the taste of the cool afternoon. "You're not gonna … kick me out, are you? 'Cause I actually … really … like it here."

"I don't make it my business what you do." I watch the tip of the filter smolder and lengthen until enough of a breath could crumble it, then risk a glance at him. "So long as you don't do it here."

There's quiet and mild relief radiating from the renter side of the house. He shifts around and my stomach feels funny again.

"So, hey, I got this kickass new flatscreen." He's looking at me. The church bells barely register as I look at an indeterminate point on my knee. "Wanna see?"

His eyes are big and earnest, and his long fingers are interlaced around his cigarette. I wait for him to look away and he doesn't.

I honestly don't know what to do.

His house is empty inside, even more than I would've expected. There are two hideous lawn chairs seated in front of the TV – the only thing he's put forth the effort to install – and he sprawls in the furthest one before changing his position anxiously almost at once. "Acquiring Satellite Signal," it says in its boring font, and the periods at the end of "Searching" are shifting around as if they're as nervous as he is.

He sighs impatiently as he taps the remote against his teeth.

His knee is less than a foot from mine.

"It's uh, it's got that thing where the blacks are, like … y'know, like really, really, really black, and um, the Dolby six-point … whatever, so … it'll really rock the house." He nods emphatically, glancing at me as he waits for a response.

The feeling in my stomach is overpowering.

"But I'll – y'know – I'll keep it way down. Of course."

He puffs air between his lips onto the remote as if it will somehow diffuse the tension.

The birds are deafening outside as the little dots on the screen flash. He wiggles around in his chair, dropping the hand with the remote at his side.

"I don't know what the hell's taking so long."

He flops his arms in frustration, his hand still hanging off the arm rest.

The TV stares blankly back at him as he loosely clutches the remote in his long fingers.

I almost pull my arm back before it can hang over the edge of my chair, hesitating at the voice in my head telling me that he's a bad decision – that one lapse in judgment is all it takes. I smother it and let the arm rest dig into my wrist. I'll die before letting that kind of bullshit hinder me again.

His fingers are surprisingly smooth and cold save for the jolt of electricity that leaps from his skin to mine.

My tenant's surprise is almost palpable for a moment, his wrist stiff as I work for a sturdy grasp of his hand. My heart is racing and my stomach is trying to implode.

Slowly Jesse's hand wraps around my own, the remote brushing against my palm. The birds are chirping enthusiastically as a car rattles by.

And I know at that moment that I'd die before taking it back.

I know this is poop. I'm definitely not worthy to write fanfiction for a series this brilliant.

Jesse's level of grammatical ineptitude is unparalleled. It took me like ten minutes of rewinding and rechecking to get each sentence right.

Title taken from the episode this fic is based on, "Negro y Azul." And naturally, someone of only human writing ability doesn't own Breaking Bad or the aforementioned characters.

Foreshadowing rocks. X3