He wonders sometimes what it would be like to undress in front of someone else. His clothes are his armour in more ways than one, and the idea of being stripped of that is nearly panic inducing. Bare skin is one thing, vulnerability another thing entirely. Each makes him uncomfortable in different ways.
There had been a time when he had cared more about what he looked like: if someone found him attractive, or even maybe just appealing. There had been a time - over a decade ago - when he had even been on the receiving end of some soulful glances, some shy flirtation. But over the years, busy with the painstaking construction of Kylo Ren, such things have slid away from his consciousness.
He hates being without his helmet. Humans especially are patently uncomfortable when they cannot see someone's face, meet their eyes, track the hundreds of minute movements of their expressions. It knocks them off guard, makes them easier to handle. He learned that lesson early and well.
Besides that, he is well aware that he doesn't exactly have the face of a stone cold killer. A girl had once told him he had the face of a poet. While the saccharine sloppiness of that memory curls his lip with distaste, he knows she wasn't entirely wrong. His face is much too mobile, too expressive. His father had despaired early on of ever making a good liar out of him.
Few people have seen his face since the night he had left the smoking ruins of the Jedi temple behind. The Knights of Ren certainly have, but otherwise only Snoke or Hux have seen him helmless. Only in the privacy of his quarters does he voluntarily bare his face.
The seals release with a hiss, and the flat-tasting air of the ship floods through. He sets it aside with care, shaking out his hair with a rough hand. It's getting too long, but he hates sitting while the barber droids fidget and clip and whir around his head.
Gloves are next, and the air on his bare skin is unnerving. Stretching and relaxing one hand, he looks at his fingers. For all that he allegedly has the face of a poet, his hands are big and square. They are inelegant but strong; more prose than poem.
His belt unlatches easily enough, and he lays it aside, eyeing the tiny pinprick light that indicates the tracker hidden within it is working properly. He hates it; the tracker is a leash, allowing Snoke – and by extension Hux – to know where he is at all times.
Unfastening and shrugging off his long coat, he notes the mud splattered at the hem and tosses it into the bin to be collected for laundry. Turning his attention to the multitude of tiny hidden hooks on his tunic that run from collarbone to waist, he makes quick work of them with practiced fingers.
His brain registers the release of pressure around his torso, along with the wave of cool air that drifts between the open panels and curls around his ribcage. He dislikes this moment the most.
The tunic is still spotless, so it is returned to the meager wardrobe sunken into the wall and hidden behind a sliding panel. Clad in just his boots, pants and a light shirt with padded sleeves, he already feels intolerably exposed, but reaching over and behind him, he grabs the flimsy material and pulls the shirt off in one motion, slinging it into the laundry bin to join his coat.
As he turns towards the 'fresher, working open the fastenings of his pants, he catches his reflection in a far wall panel. He glares at his image in distaste.
His height and build are acceptable, he thinks dispassionately. But his skin, always fair, has slid to just this side of pasty without any regular exposure to natural light. Dark spots – his mother had called them beauty marks – litter his body.
His face is too soft looking for his liking, and his frown deepens as he rakes his gaze from his black hair – shaggy from overgrowth and lank from a day spent under his helmet – to his exaggerated features, to his hated ears.
Muscles shift under his skin as he assesses his torso. Thankfully his once-gangly frame has filled in with dedicated effort and years of hard training, but it is a constant struggle to retain his body mass.
His eyes ghost over the faint lines of old scars, trying and failing to see himself as a complete person instead of this motley collection of substandard parts. What would someone else see?
He has never taken a lover, and if there are the odd moments where he finds himself contemplating one, he calls himself a fool for thinking that he ever will. Who would ever want him, especially now? Flush with First Order credits he could easily find paid companionship, but just the thought floods his mouth with disgust. He turns from his reflection with a stifled curse.
With his pants loosened, he sits for a moment in one of the chairs at his table. Why he has more than one when he has never had another person in his quarters, he doesn't know. Pulling his boots off, they drop to the floor with two distinct thuds. They are muddy, too, he sees, making a note to send them out for cleaning.
Then finally, his anxiety about being so exposed assuaged somewhat by the familiar stoking of his self-loathing, he strips off his pants and undergarments in one shove. Stepping free, he all but bolts for the 'fresher door.
Later, dressed in loose pants and a tunic – black, of course - he forces himself to eat. A tray had been delivered by a droid while he was in the shower. It is the only being that ever sets foot in his quarters.
He eats methodically, his table manners ingrained, and adds an extra protein ration at the end. He scrolls through his datapad the entire time, only setting it aside when his meal is eaten. Tea steams in its thermal container on the tray; pouring a cup, he cradles it in his hands as he lets his mind wander briefly.
The droid returns for the tray a few minutes later. His train of thought broken he drains his cup, returns it to the tray, and hands over his boots for cleaning and polishing. The droid beeps softly as it exits, and he follows it to the door, entering a code that he locks in with a retinal scan.
The ship is traveling steadily through space, with only the faintest vibration from the distant thrusters. He slips into his narrow bed, particularly grateful for the weight and warmth of his heavy black blanket tonight.
He won't sleep well; he never does. A humourless smile twists his lips. He hasn't had a decent night of sleep since he had woken to the eerie green light of his uncle's lightsaber hovering near his head. Tonight will be no different, but he knows from experience that fitful sleep is better than none at all. Turning onto his side and curling into himself, he resigns himself to the nightmares.