"Yes." His answer is out of his mouth almost before Hunter is finished suggesting it. Anything to chase away even the slightest hunger pangs, to quiet the ghosts that have risen up from walking the streets of that awful place. Food, real food, not the scraps he managed to scavenge on his luckier days, or... what he had when things were worse.

He lets himself step back, desperately trying to act normal, to scrape up what's left of James T. Kirk and pour it into the shattered vessel that remains. This is normal. He can do this. He can. For Hunter's sake.

The tremor in his hands is still there, but far less than it was, and Jim runs a hand through damp hair as he tries to compose himself. What's step one? He knows that he knows this one. He takes in a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. Step one. Clothes. That's right. A towel will only get him so far. And while he has no shame in his body, right now he needs that extra layer of armor to protect him from the world, something comfortable and familiar. Normal.

"I need... clothes." He doesn't want to stray too far, to let Hunter out of his sight, to be alone even for a moment. Not yet. But the apartment is so open, wide open spaces that maybe he won't have to.