Title: Frozen No Longer
Rating: R
Continuity: G1 (post 1986 movie)
Pairings, Characters: Prowl/Jazz, First Aid, Swoop, Unnamed OC
Summary: In the aftermath of the loss of his bonded, Jazz finds a reason to hold on for a time.
Content Notification: Canon char. deaths, mentions torture, attempted suicide, robotic reproduction of the spark-carrying and then placed in a growth tank variety, spiritual themes, afterlife, spark merge, fluffy ending

Notes:This story is inspired by the beautiful work of art, Cold as Ice by Plantman-Exe, which can be found at [fav . me / d4jj7mj] (remove spaces and brackets). She created it first for our collaboration on the livejournal ProwlxJazz December Challenge using the prompt "frozen". I muddled through several ideas in response, and finally came up with this one, which does not even come close to doing justice to her lovely creation, but hopefully is an interesting spin on it. And as dark as the warnings sound, I honestly consider this to be hopeful story, of the bittersweet variety. Portions of the growth tank process inspired by Tainry's story, Borealis.

Jazz could not process why he continued to function.

When the other half of his spark extinguished, he should have followed. More than anything, he wanted to follow. Every spin of his shredded spark was agony. He wanted it to end. Yet he went on, in seemingly endless pain as his spark refused to do the inevitable.

He was unsure what awaited him after, whether oblivion or reunion with his mate. He had learned, first hand, that the Unmaker, at least, did exist. And even the Unmaker had failed to destroy him, to end what should have ended the moment Prowl was gone. Instead, Jazz had been saved from the destruction he craved by a human child.

Was it duty that kept him in this half functioning slag pit? Duty to a new Prime, to a Cybertron being rebuilt, to Earth reeling from changes beyond its control? These things meant nothing in the face of what Jazz had lost. Not that duty was enough to keep any mech's spark kindled when their bonded extinguished, though a part of Jazz's processors whispered that duty might have been enough for his lost mate to hang on a bit longer. Perhaps it was that bit of Prowl that remained in him, that had reshaped his own spark, which kept him going, demanding he fulfill one final duty.

The Pit take duty.

It wasn't right. It wasn't just. And he could not even find the strength to deactivate himself. Something kept halting his hand from making the connection that would upload the virus he had so carefully crafted. It would have been so fast... so easy.

In the darkness of the quarters they had shared in Metroplex's officers wing, a keening scream escaped from his ravaged vocalizer. He threw the datapad which held the virus against the wall, smashing its crystal display, before collapsing into the cold, empty berth, his frame shaking until recharge that was more like stasis took him.

No one checked on him. It was too disturbing to them that he still remained, a dead mech walking, haunting his and his dead lover's quarters. He only reminded them of all they had lost, and they knew he was lost as well. Metroplex kept vigil, and would tell them all when the end finally came.

He was on an ice covered moon, with just enough atmosphere to hold in moisture as well as the frigid chill. It was a dangerous sort of place, one where a mech's joints could ice up and hydraulic fluid freeze. It was the kind of cold that could even congeal energon. Yet, the way the glowing planet's reflected light sparkled on the moon's ice and crystal formations had its own kind of stark beauty.

He watched as another mech made his way across the dark, jagged landscape toward the place where he sat, a throne-like chair carved out of the ice itself. The figure was familiar, sensor wings held high and proud, a glowing sword where his enforcer's shock stick had once been held, before the war.

'Prowl,' he nearly whispered, but the words shorted out in a hiss of static. His spark did not call out to this stranger who had all the right colorings and kibble, but strangely, had a visor across his optics.

It was not Prowl. It could have been Prowl's frame, but Jazz's spark knew with empty certainty that the spark was not that of his bonded lover.

The mech gave him a stiff nod, and approached without hesitation, resolute and sure in his purpose. As the stranger came closer, instinct had Jazz wanting to bring his hand to his own faceplates, knowing somehow that he would find no visor where it should have been, but instead frozen tears of blue optic fluid from lines that had burst in the cold. However, his arms were frozen in the ice. He could not move.

He felt no fear as the visored mech silently brought up his sword and cut through the ice that bound him. He felt nothing at all. He could not recall why, but his spark could no longer feel.

The mech brought a cube out of subspace and handed it to him, and then wrapped the frozen, exposed cabling in Jazz's neck in some kind of organic furs.

Jazz gave a humorless laugh, his smile devoid of cheer as the mech stood silently beside him, hand on the hilt of his glowing sword as though standing vigil.

"What are ya, some kinda ghost o' Christmas future, comin' t' warn meh," he asked the silent figure who wore Prowl's frame but was not Prowl.

The mech regarded him with the same stern expression Prowl would have used in public, when Jazz said something completely ludicrous. Something about that thought made Jazz's spark ache, but he could not remember why.

"Well, say somethin'. Who the frag are ya? Where are we?"

The mech moved so that he was right in front of Jazz, tall and proud and achingly familiar, yet still a stranger. He raised his sword, and for a moment, Jazz thought he meant to slice him through. For some reason, the prospect pleased him, his fame tingling in anticipation of that sword rending his spark. But instead, the sword slowly sliced through the reality itself, opening a portal through which Jazz found himself watching a strange, dying star. It was unlike any star he had ever seen, parts of it bright and whole, with others shredded and dark. It slowly spun around to reveal to him what lay hidden on the other side. His own spark surged in recognition when he glimpsed it: a second, much smaller star connected to the larger one by thousands of tendrils of light, pulling plasma into itself as it spun brighter and brighter, growing and coalescing even as the larger one lost its shape and slowly disintegrated into nothing.

Then around that new star, a frame coalesced, Prowl's frame, but with Jazz's visor.

Jazz's hand clawed at his chestplates as he raced toward Medical, comming a shocked First Aid that he was on his way. It was so unthinkable, so unimaginable that it could not be, but it was the only thing that explained why he still functioned, why his spark had not guttered and died as soon as his bondmate's had done so. It was something that did not happen by accident, did not happen without intention, and certainly did not happen in the midst of war when such programs were deactivated. Yet he and Prowl had merged just orns before Prowl had been sent on that doomed mission to Earth. And Jazz knew, without a doubt, that part of his mate's spark lived on, in a new one that orbited his own.

Duty. One final duty, to ensure that Prowl's spark lived on.

The doors slid open and First Aid assisted him to a berth, scanner in hand and active.

"Ah know why Ah'm still here," Jazz managed to choke out.

"It isn't possible," First Aid whispered, awed, checking and rechecking the results. "It shouldn't have been able to survive the breaking of the bond."

"Shouldn't have been able to ta be created in the first place," Jazz said, a will to live, to last until the spark was viable, replacing his will to die.

"Jazz, carrying the newspark will kill you," First Aid began. "Your spark..."

"Ah'm already a dead mech, Aid," Jazz interrupted. "Ya know there's nothin' ta be done. Ya just have ta keep me goin' 'til this one can go in the tank."

"I'm not sure... I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure it will be strong enough before yours gives out. Ratchet..."

"Ratchet trusted ya!" Jazz snapped, grabbing the young medic by his wrist with more strength than he should have had. "Made ya his successor for a reason. Ya have ta do this!"

First Aid nodded, his own visor meeting Jazz's own with transparent grief. "I will make sure both of you live on in your creation."

Jazz had not always worn a visor. The predecessor to his position in Special Operations had suggested one to him during his training.

"Your optics betray too much," he had explained in a calm tone even as he demonstrated on Jazz's own frame just how to effectively torture a mech without leaving a mark. "They show the lying, cold-sparked slagger you are instead of the cheerful, easy going mech you are trying to portray. In your position, you need to be the mech everyone trusts, even prisoners, so they willingly let you hack them to avoid mechs like me. If they see your optics, they'll know. They'll never trust you."

Jazz had taken the words to spark, and had never let anyone get close enough to find out the truth behind the persona he projected. Sometimes, when there was fun to be had and he was at the center of it, he even fooled himself. But then he would remove his visor in the privacy of his quarters, and see his optics, how cold and frozen they were.

Of all the mechs to get past his defenses, he'd never expected it to be Prowl. Prowl's outward persona was as cold as Jazz's was warm, his logic and efficiency a perfect foil to Jazz's chaos and improvisation.

Yet Prowl, of all mechs, had pursued him. And unlike most mechs, had not been content with heated, clanging tumbles in the berth or against a wall. Prowl had pursued him with the same relentless efficiency with which he pursued all of his duties, and when it came to getting past the visor and learning who Jazz truly was, Prowl's tactics had been frighteningly effective.

And somehow, in the midst of it, Jazz had learned that underneath the cold exterior, Prowl was every bit as warm and compassionate and Jazz was cold and ruthless. Prowl loved with an intensity that frightened Jazz, who was good at pleasure, better at pain, and horrible at love.

He wasn't sure what twist of fortune made Prowl decide that he was worthy of that love. He had fully expected Prowl to turn away, to protect himself from Jazz's coldness once he learned the truth. Prowl never had. Prowl saw something different in the optics beneath the visor, and ever so slowly, Jazz had warmed, and had discovered that who he was at spark was not so different from the persona he projected.

Still, despite Prowl's many completely illogical requests for them to do so, they had not bonded. Not until they awoke from stasis on Earth.

Earth was where the final thaw took place beneath Jazz's visor and in his spark. They should never have been able to survive stasis as long as they had, and yet they were alive. Not only alive, but on a planet so richly full of life and energy and hope that they could, at long last, end this war. In the face of such ridiculous hope, Jazz could not say no when Prowl had begged him once again to bond as their frames slid against one another in life-affirming heat.

Cold Prowl. Ruthlessly logical Prowl. If only mecha really knew.

And now, a part of Prowl's spark, a spark Jazz knew to be love itself embodied in energy, lived on, connected to Jazz's own. News had filtered out among the Autobots stationed on Earth, and then across the space bridge to Cybertron. Someone, likely Kup, had recalled the ancient tradition. Word of it had spread and with it a steady stream of mechs and femmes arriving in Medical, where Jazz was connected to a dozen different feeds keeping his spark kindled long enough for the smaller one to become viable. Each presented the carrier with a part of themselves, to be smelted and added to the protomass and nanites that would form into a frame in the growth tank. Once the spark was viable, it too, would be placed in the tank, and the nanites would be imprinted with the spark's own unique code, and would infuse the materials and bring them to life, forming the living metal shell.

It was a process that had fallen out of favor, far less efficient than Vector Sigma.

It was a miracle by which Prowl and Jazz's sparks and coding would live on in a new person.

Jazz had already chosen the part he would donate. It was already smelted down to its component materials and nanites, already waiting in the tank. When mechs and femmes made their way into Medical to offer parts of themselves for Jazz and Prowl's creation, some briefly startled at the sight of Jazz's un-visored optics, regarding them with quiet thanks. Some could not meet his with their own. He did nothing to hide the bittersweet grief and hope that his optics communicated so freely.

But many others looked at him, and knew him in a way they hadn't before.

Because Prowl had shaped Jazz's spark, had changed him, and it was no longer an icy gaze that met them. His optics were honest about his pain, but they were also warm.

The end, when it came, was not something Jazz feared in the least. He knew that most of his life-force had already been channeled to where it belonged. The rest of his spark was already gone to wherever it would go, only this final duty and a few wisps of life holding him to functioning. Jazz would not get to witness the new frame form and then activate. But he already knew what the mech would look like when he stepped from the tank. He had already met him, and knew that beneath his visor and quiet stoicism, his creation's optics would be every bit as warm and loving as Prowl's had been.

To know that he and Prowl would live on was more than Jazz ever could have hoped for in the face of his bonded's deactivation. Jazz selfishly hoped that most of the code that had imbued the new spark had come from his sparkmate.

"We're ready for separation," First Aid said quietly as he stood over Jazz's open chestplates, Swoop at his side to assist. Jazz reached for the visored medic's hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Ya have mah thanks, Aid. Ya did great. Ratchet woulda been so proud."

First Aid retracted his own mask, his smile sad. "We'll take good care of him. I promise he'll know who his creators were."

"Ah know ya will," Jazz said, his own smile warm, at peace. "Ah know Ah made the right choice havin' your team be the mentors."

"Me Swoop will tell him sparkling stories about brave creators every day," Swoop added, his voice wavering and laced with static.

"Tell 'im 'bout your makers, too, Swoop. Two o' the, smartest, bravest mechs Ah knew. They'd be real proud o' ya."

"Me Swoop tell him Jazz and Prowl's creation, yes, and about all the brave mechs and femmes."

"Ah know ya will. He's in good hands. Let's do this, mechs. Mah bonded's waitin' for meh."

Jazz squeezed First Aid's hand a final time, then let it go so the medic could take the tools he needed from the tray.

He was once again on the icy moon, surrounded by jagged crystal formations. The planet above was but a crescent this time, eerily lighting the landscape around him. Once again he was sitting in the icy chair, but his hands were not bound in ice. He reached up, and found his visor gone, but this time, there were no frozen fluids around his optics.

A mech was approaching, a familiar frame, sensor wings held high and proud, a glowing sword where his enforcer's shock stick had once hung. This time, optics met his rather than a visor. This time, Jazz's own spark called out to his mate. He did not wait, but stood, running toward the Praxian as fast as the jagged landscape would allow. The other mech jogged the final distance as well, a hint of a smile and the flick of sensor wings betraying a wellspring of affection.

"Prowl," the designation was spoken as much by his spark as by his vocalizer. The kiss that followed that single word threatened to melt the icy landscape.

When they both pulled back, it was to look at one another. Prowl's fingers traced where Jazz's visor had been, and then cupped the plating of his cheek tenderly. "You held on," he said, pride and awe swirling across their bond.

"Ah had ta," Jazz choked out, resting his helm against the familiar chevron that heated against him. "Had ta make sure a part of ya lived on."

"Part of both of us," Prowl agreed, the bond surging with love, "so much of you in his spark as well."

There was no way to respond to that other than another ice-melting kiss, so that is what Jazz did, hands reaching around to stroke his beloved's sensor wings in just the right ways to make a shiver travel his entire frame until all that stoic self-control erupted into the passion that hid underneath. Jazz found himself pinned beneath his mate in a single smooth move, plates parting so hot spinning sparks could reclaim what belonged to them alone.

~Where in Primus-name are we?~ Jazz asked when the pyrotechnics died down and their sparks rested in one another, still joined by a thousand tendrils of their love.

~I don't know. This came from your processor.~

~It's pretty an' all, but sorta cold, don't ya think?~

~I believe it represents how you once saw yourself, and since it is utterly untrue that you are this cold, the most logical course of action would be to melt it.~

~Ah think we know just how ta do that,~ Jazz conceded, sending a surge of love and desire along the bond that in this place could never be broken. As the sparks plunged into one another again, the ice melted away, along with the moon, and the planet, and even the frames that no longer held them.