He orchestrates it on Sebastian's Name Day, because Sebastian is so hysterically, magnetically self-conscious about being Catholic. About being Irish, really, so it's a Saint Patrick's they stop near for lunch, and the sniper doesn't notice. Jim sees the clench of his jaw when the brick and mortar comes into view, but he sweeps them inside so quickly, he doesn't have time to revel properly in reactions.
He always regrets those moments that time and pragmatism force him to miss. He always makes up for it.
If Sebastian remembers what day it is, he's too busy spluttering - under his breath, fucks and bastards stuttering against the house of God before they trip over his tongue, adorable- there's no question of his actually following Jim past the distant curtain that's become his focus. There is every danger he might simply stalk out in some daringly mute protest when Jim kneels to cross himself, so the man is pulled down with him, dragged down the aisle past an unremarkable sprinkling of congregants. There's one there empty, one manned, and oh, he's tempted... but, Sebastian's gorgeous subtleties. Too many great leaps at once and no one will appreciate anything. Not least the way the bench groans beneath Sebastian's weight landing abruptly in Jim's lap. The naked disbelief, narrow eyes and open mouth, twisting into something harder and far better than surprise when Jim begins undressing him that quickly. Fear, always. Delight. The moment Jim prizes above all else, when he sees Sebastian's reality fall away around him, and he knows that to the Colonel it's not a church anymore. It isn't anywhere.
It is for Jim. That's all that really matters.
Sebastian's hands are already in his hair when Jim begins to loose one or two bonds of his own restraint, begins rocking into him with enough force to really strain the limits of worn and sacred wood- but it's Sebastian who cuts them entirely, arching like that, suddenly trying to quiet Jim's voice with his own fingers. Or feel it, maybe, and Jim wants to laugh, but can't. Both of them breathing as loudly as anyone might in a confessional, but for sinners of particular gravity; they're still quiet, in comparison to something. Themselves, maybe. Jim can feel all the noise he ought not to be making build up the way his other screams do, most of the time. He has so much less practice bottling these. And Sebastian, bracing himself against the roof of the little space, tensed and sweating and gasping, legs clenching, thrusting hot with such intensity- he never looks away from Jim, not once, he never does, pouring himself- no one in the world, least of all one under-populated afternoon fellowship, could expect Jim to be some quiet supplicant. This raw creature focused so completely on stifling Jim's voice, on provoking it- Jim is only exalting Saint Sebastian. Ecstatic worship, Gloria in Excelsis, and if someone nearby has heard the name, however strangled, curled around Sebastian's perfect, nimble fingers- they ought to recognize prayer.
Jim would like to linger, trace the scars on his soldier's chest, mark the spots where arrows would be; and it's never Sebastian who regains his head first in moments like this. One priest's rancor is so small a price to pay for such devoted worship. "Bless me father, for I have-" He's yanked at the elbow, and the grin is one his sniper refuses to call anything but shit-eating, and God, God but Sebastian's mortification is so rare and fantastic a gem these days. Since he's learned how much Jim appreciates the right joke. It would have been worth that alone.
"My Sebastian, their Sebastian. You needn't be so keen on the distinction. I'm not." They're walking briskly, police having undoubtedly been called. "Today is for both of you, isn't it? And you're not martyred yet. Didn't we celebrate? Didn't we give glory? Didn't we-"
Sebastian's fingers are in his mouth again before he can finish.