Title:    "When The Music's Over"
Author/pseudonym:  Candy Apple 
Rating: E
Pairings: J/B

Status: NEW
Date: 5-7-98
Series/Sequel:   NO

Disclaimers:   This is a work of fiction produced solely for the
entertainment of fans.  All characters having appeared in the UPN
Series, "The Sentinel", belong to UPN and/or Pet Fly Productions.  No
mention that is made of Jim Morrison or The Doors is intended to
reflect on them in any way.  This is purely a flight of fantasy.

Notes: Thank you to the Blairlist for talking over Blair's paternity.  I've
always been partial to this particular possibility, and discussing it again
reminded me...

//...// Indicates words sung by Jim Morrison

Summary: Blair has a theory about his paternity.   

Warnings:  None really.  Just a re-statement that this is only Blair's
brainstorm, and my fantasy. 


WHEN THE MUSIC'S OVER

by 

Candy Apple


     Jim was surprised to hear the rather loud strains of his CD of
The Doors carrying out to the hall as he approached the door to the loft. 
He had heard music when he entered the building, but hadn't paid much
attention to it until now.  One thing he rarely experienced was hearing
his own favorite bands blasting at painful volume out of the apartment.

     Unlocking the door and entering, he tossed his keys in the
basket.  Blair was sitting Indian-style in the middle of the living room
floor, candles lit in the shadows of dusk, eyes closed, oblivious to
everything but Jim Morrison's hypnotic voice as it wafted through the
loft like a ghostly vapor.

     "Blair?"  Jim paused at the door, watching his lover in this
strange, transfixed state.  "Hey, Chief?  Anybody home?"  he hollered
over the keyboard solo as "Light My Fire" continued to hold Blair
under a strange spell.

     On the floor near where Blair sat were a couple of books of
Morrison's poetry, a biography of the man's life, and dozens of photos
of both Morrison and Blair himself, mostly having been extricated
from Naomi's album, though a few were from their own collection of
vacation photos.

     Jim moved toward the stereo and reached for the volume.

     "Don't," Blair said, his soft voice strangely commanding and a
bit vacant.

     "What's going on here, buddy?"  Jim crouched next to his
partner, checking him for any signs of drug use or intoxication, though
he knew better than to expect either from Blair.  

     "I think he's the one."

     "What?  What do you mean?"

     "Jim Morrison.  I think it's him."

     "Blair--what are you talking about?"  Jim finally sat on the floor
himself, figuring if he couldn't beat 'em, he'd join 'em.  The wild
keyboard solo subsided and Morrison's voice returned, as if on cue. 
Jim couldn't help but feel oddly haunted by the dead singer's voice. 
Morrison had been dead most of the time Jim had been a fan, and that
was never foremost in his mind when he listened to the music.  Now,
he expected Morrison to tap him on the shoulder any minute, his
presence almost tangible in the shadowy apartment.

     "I've been reading.  This book.  You know, he was with a lot of
women, and I doubt he remembered most of them...and my mom...you
know, she hung around musicians sometimes."

     "Like Hendrix?"

     "Yeah.  And Morrison.  She told me once she went to quite a
few of their shows--she said she even got backstage once."

     "Did she say she met Morrison?"

     "No.  But I didn't ask.  She wasn't talking about him like he was
a big contender or anything."

     "Why do you think of him as one now?"

     "I was reading this book."  He held up a well-worn paperback
entitled "No One Here Gets Out Alive".

     "I read that a long time ago--probably ten years or so now."

     "Well, there's a passage in this book that talks about how when
Jim Morrison was little, his family came upon this accident on the
road, and this family of Indians that were riding in a truck had been
killed, and it was a pretty nasty scene."  Blair shuddered, and Jim
scooted over, draping an arm around Blair's shoulders.  "One of the
dead was an old man--a medicine man--a shaman.  Morrison believed
that the old man's spirit passed into him at the scene of the accident."

     "I love the guy's music, and some of his poetry is interesting,
but let's face it, Chief, he was flying pretty high most of the time.  I
don't know as I'd take much of that theory to the bank."

     "Jim, Incacha told me that he was passing on to me the way of
the shaman.  Think about this a minute.  Maybe the whole reason that I
can guide you, that I was worthy for any of this, is because I inherited
some of that old shaman's spirit."  Blair picked up a photo of Morrison
and one of the few posed ones of himself.  "Look at that."

     "Where did you get the photos of Morrison?"

     "At the music store downtown.  They have some celebrity
8x10s in the back.  That's not important, Jim.  Look at the photos.
*Look at me!* Jim, after all these years, I finally *look like* someone!"

     //Five to one, baby, one in five, no one here gets out alive...//
Morrison growled from the speaker as if to punctuate Blair's statement. 
Jim felt a distinct chill dance up and down his spine.

     "Sweetheart, I'm not trying to be a wet blanket here, but you
don't even know that Naomi ever met him.  And I admit the whole
shaman thing is strange, and a coincidence, but I still--"

     //Night is drawing near, shadows of the evening, crawl across
the years...//

     "Just because he had a substance abuse problem didn't mean he
was crazy, or that he was wrong about this shaman thing.  You sat right
here in this room when Incacha told me he was passing the way of the
shaman to me.  So why couldn't that old man's spirit have passed the
same thing to Jim Morrison?"

     "It could have.  And there may be intelligent life on other
planets, too.  Blair, seriously, I'm not making fun of you," Jim hastened
to add when he saw Blair's disgusted expression.  "I just mean that
unexplained phenomena may well exist, but I just don't think this is one
time when I'd hang my hat on it."
     
     "You know you feel something when you hear him sing now. 
Something you didn't feel before.  Why do you think that is?"

     "Because our living room looks and sounds like a shrine to the
guy at the moment."  Jim slumped back against the front of the couch
as Blair got up and started pacing.

     "I feel a connection.  I can't explain it."

     "You feel one because you want to feel one.  I'm not saying it's
impossible, but I'm saying you have no proof.  Nothing to go on.  Even
if Naomi met him, and...and spent time with him, would that
necessarily cinch the deal?"

     "No.  I know she was part of that whole free love thing.  She
honestly doesn't know who it is.  I really put her through the paces
when I was in high school.  I was so damned curious at the time.  For
some reason, when I was about 15 or so, it was really important to me
to find my father.  My mother isn't a liar.  If she'd known who it was,
she would have told me.  If she'd known it was Morrison, she would
have told me that too.  I mean, I was old enough to understand the issue
about drugs and drinking and promiscuity in the whole hippie
generation.  She had some of his poetry books, and listened to some of
his music when I was growing up.  I liked it too.  Plus, even if she was
worried he wouldn't be a good influence, he wouldn't have been any
threat for custody or visitation or hassles like that--he was dead by the
time I was two years old."

     "So what you're saying is that you can't ever find out for sure?"

     "Short of a paternity test, which isn't going to happen now, no, I
can't," Blair admitted, his tone discouraged.  He returned to sitting next
to Jim on the floor and sighed.  "Maybe I'd like it to be him.  You know
what I mean?  He was into the mystical stuff, sort of, and he was
creative, and extremely intelligent--his IQ was once quoted as being
149.  I look like him."

     "I don't deny that, baby.  And I can see you coming from
someone talented and brilliant and good-looking."

     "Besides my mom, huh?"  Blair asked with a little smile.

     "Yeah, *another* talented, brilliant, good-looking person."  Jim
pulled Blair into his arms.  "I don't have any doubts you come from
champion stock, Chief--on both sides.  Whether or not it's Morrison..."

     "It's a fantasy, I guess.  It would be nice to know.  And for all
his problems, he was so damned gifted.  Maybe there's a part of me that
*wants* to be able to claim that lineage.  I don't want to think it was
just another hippie who was too high or had too many women to know
or care.  Plus, if he's dead, that's a good reason he never...you
know...cared about looking me up."

     "Your real dad might not even know you exist, sweetheart.  I
can't picture anyone not caring about you."  Jim kissed Blair's forehead
and squeezed him tightly.  "I guess there's no harm in seeing it as a
possibility."

     "It fits so well...I guess I just enjoyed speculating.  And thinking
I'd found the answer for just a little while there.  To be able to 'meet'
my dad--even if it was posthumously."

     "Jim Morrison left a wonderful legacy of music behind, along
with his poetry, his influence on rock and roll."  Jim drew back and
looked down at Blair.  "But if you had been his son, you would have
been his greatest legacy, Blair."  Jim caressed the other man's cheek,
and smiled at the stunned expression and the moisture pooling the large
blue eyes regarding him so seriously.  Blair was speechless.

     In the background, Jim Morrison was completing his
performance for the evening.

     //When the music's over...turn out the light, turn out the light...//

The End