Then came Afghanistan, and worries of undiscovered bruises and burns turned into fears of hyperthermia and febrile seizures, of not feeling the burning in his lungs until it was too late and being was left with a chest full of water along with his newly gained shrapnel.

But then, it was kinda nice sometimes. Because really, waking up in the middle of open heart surgery with no anaesthetic was terrifying, but at least it wasn't painful.

He'd never been more thankful for it than he was then.

Yinsen seemed surprised, although grateful, at having such a compliant patient, but as soon as he realized why, it turned to apprehension.

"CIPA," Tony told him, examining his chest with a mirror once again, to reassure himself that there was something there. "Although if we're going to get technical, it would be CIPPA. Congenital insensitivity to pain with partial anhidrosis. I still sweat, which is nice, but not as much as others. But no pain," he noted, touching his fingers hesitantly to the pink healing tissue that surrounded the implant.

"You were unconscious for a long time," Yinsen told him. "I was grateful, because he had no pain medication to give you. But this changes things. How can I tell if there is a complication if you cannot tell me what you feel?"

Tony shrugged, putting the mirror down, and tugging the gauze back up to cover it.

"Sorry. Don't know what to tell you though. I was pretty familiar with how everything should look, since I couldn't go by sensation, but you've gone Van Gogh and moved things around. I don't suppose you've got an x-ray machine hanging around?"

Yinsen smiled wryly at him. "No, they took it along with the coffee maker."

Tony groaned. "I would kill for coffee."

Yinsen patted him on the shoulder. "It may yet come to that," he said quietly, and Tony's newly patched up heart stumbled at what it meant.

They came to an arrangement; Yinsen would check Tony out at least once a day, more if he felt like it, and Tony couldn't deny him that. In turn, Tony would absolutely for sure tell Yinsen if he felt anything, like shortness of breath, dizziness, nausea, anything. Because maybe he couldn't feel if something wasn't right, but he could feel symptoms of an impending downward spiral.

Torture wasn't good.

Obviously, in the strictest sense, Tony knew that torture wasn't good. But when it was on him, the man who would never give in because he would never feel it, it was doubly awful. He would die before he would cry, simply because unless he saw it, he wouldn't even know what was being done.

His leg could be nearly amputated, and he wouldn't know, except for a slight feeling of imbalance.

But they didn't use knives and fire and electricity, they used water.

Water, which was pretty much the worst fucking thing they could use on a guy with a battery attached to his heart, but hey, no one ever said terrorists had to pass an IQ test.

Because he couldn't feel the burning in his lungs as they filled with water, but he could feel the thirst (maybe not the best word choice) for air. He could feel his mind slipping as it went on strike, demanding more oxygen than it was getting. And he swore he felt, or maybe it was heard, because his pulse was pounding in his ears, his heart skip a couple beats, hop skip and jump before his head was raised above the water and he could gulp in huge gasps of air that should have hurt.

He agreed eventually, because there's only so much you can take, even if you can't feel it. Because he could feel the wet rattle in his lungs, could feel the toll the repeated periods of no oxygen was taking on him.

So at the moment of greatest weakness he'd ever had (maybe, probably), he agreed.

Honestly, he should have agreed at the beginning, because these men, oh these men were stupid enough to give him everything he asked for, tools and equipment and parts, and they didn't even realize that he was authoring their very own disaster.

Because he didn't build them a missile, he built himself armour, and then he blasted his way out of that hellhole. They were going to. Both of them.

But Yinsen, and Tony's heart still clenched thinking about him, Yinsen had to be the hero, and despite Tony protesting, off he went and got himself killed.

Tony thought he was going to die in the desert, under the heat of the sun that was surely intolerable, but that he couldn't feel.

But by god, he'd never been so glad to be insulted in his life, as long as it was by Rhodey and he brought the cavalry.

Tony didn't die in the desert, but he did have broken bones he didn't know about, he did have bruises everywhere that he hadn't seen, and they wanted to keep him in hospital somewhere in Europe, but Tony wanted home.

And Tony generally managed to get what he wanted.

Home it was.

Then Pepper, because Pepper didn't know, and Tony couldn't have her knowing, because it was one of the few things in his life that was as close to normal as it could be, wanted Tony to go to a hospital.

Instead he ate a cheeseburger and held a press conference, and no one was happy about any of that, but Tony didn't care.

He took care of business, and made a new suit, because things weren't right in the world, and Tony wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to sleep, really sleep, again if he didn't fix them.

So Tony turned himself into the only weapon he was ever going to make again, and made sure he was the only one who could have it, because he never wanted to close his eyes and see more people who had died for him or because of him.

But Obie. Obadiah fucking Stane, waltzed into Tony's house and took the heart right out of his chest, and the betrayal hurt more than the removal of a vital organ could. (One of these things can be remade in a cave, and the other can't.)

But the mention of Pepper was more than enough to help him fight through, not the pain, there wasn't any pain, but through the impending collapse as he struggled to the workshop.

He swore he could feel the shrapnel in his chest moving towards his heart, but he couldn't, not the pain anyway, maybe the pressure, since he could feel pressure, but honestly how much pressure could those little tiny sharp pieces of metal exert?

Focus, he breathed to himself, which was easier said than done on account of the whole heart stopping thing.

Because even if he couldn't feel the pain or the shrapnel moving, he could feel the layer of fog settling over his brain, he could see the black spots that were invading his vision, he could feel the sweat soaking through his shirt because he was dying.

He didn't die, and Obie did, and the betrayal still stung for weeks afterwards, until Tony smoothed it over with bigger and better inventions and suits and upgrades to Jarvis so it could never ever happen again.

(He'd like to think it was gone, anyway. But those things stuck around, in the way he never let anyone near his chest, just in case. Damage can be hidden, but never completely erased.)