[ graves doesn't need an answer when credence's words are telling enough. he doesn't need it explicitly explained to him because what will it solve? the world is a cruel place for people who have little to nothing -- and they are the ones who must learn to survive it or be swallowed up by those who are stronger, bigger.

it's the way of the world and graves has done so much of that himself. he is no saint, and his hands are bloody from the work that he does for his country, but he doesn't belabor the point. credence is an exception in so many, many ways, and he keeps his hands there, acutely aware that the boy probably isn't wearing any underwear under the shirt (you tend to dispense with that kind of formality when you know it's going to end up on the ground anyway). he learns to read credence like a book, sees the shame in his eyes and the way that defense mechanism comes up -- and he thinks of credence on his knees blowing some fucker, bent over a table or another with his legs spread for another, and he knows he definitely isn't going to be one of them.

not unless credence genuinely, truly wants it. ]

You're entitled to all your rights and your space with me. [ he tells him quietly, reaching up to brush light fingers just barely over the line of his jaw. ] I won't pursue unless you genuinely want me to, Credence. And all of this here is still yours to use, and have.