He could never decide whether to love or to hate it, that thing in his chest.
He felt as though he ought to hate it. Sometimes just looking at it—the way his skin puckered around the shimmering metal, knowing that it was actually in him, not just adorning his (admittedly gorgeous) body—was enough to make him feel sick. And then he had to wonder if it disgusted other people as much as it did him—not that he particularly cared what other people thought. Except that the one person whose thoughts might actually matter—well, her reaction had been less than ideal.
More than that, though, it marked him a cripple. He despised the thought of needing to rely on something out of his control for his very survival. It hindered him, made him vulnerable. It showed all the world, highlighted in shining blue light, his mortality and weakness. It showed the world evidence of the time in his life he'd been his most powerless, most helpless.
But he loved it, too. Because if it evidenced his weakness, it also evidenced his turning point. It was a celebration of how far he'd come since it had become a part of him, how much he'd changed—for the better, he liked to think. It never let him forget those steady, doctor's hands that had given so much for him to live. It forced him to remember why he had to keep trying to make a difference, to reign in the evils that he personally had released on the world. And it gave him the power to keep on fighting, the ability to do what he knew was right.
Of course, it helped that it was something he had made, and he was nothing if not proud of his work. If he could flaunt his genius, then so much the better. After all, what America's top scientists couldn't make in a fully equipped lab, he had made in a cave. He felt that he had the right to gloat.
In the end, he knew that it didn't matter whether he loved or not. The fact was that he needed it to survive, and his feelings wouldn't change anything.
It was hard to say if he loved it or hated it—but he figured that he might as well lean towards love.