He didn't believe in fate. Christ, no. Fate stripped all intent out of life. It reduced you down to a handful of stars moving lazily through the heavens and sucked at the marrow of whatever burning resentment, desire, passion had you moving forward. There was no grand machination and Jack was enjoying a conversation greased on rather a lot of bullshit. Nishka appeared to be taking it all rather seriously, but she was, Jack judged, closer to drunk than he was. Perhaps she was a very serious drunk.
He half-expected the contradiction. Cat could pronounce white was black, if it was convenient to her to do so and guilt or otherwise was far more ambiguous. Easy target, really. And that comment, blithe and breezy and loaded suggested perhaps Nishka had been, as well. It was highly unlikely she'd caught the worst of Cat's claws if she didn't remember it was Cat. There was something particularly feline, about the desire to draw attention before plunging five claws into your flesh. Bukowski did it frequently.
Which was rather besides the point. Cat poured something that probably cost more than the price-tag on his article, and Jack picked up the Irish whiskey, sniffed and then drank. "Piety," he said, of nuns and their kneelers. "A devoted constitution, one that believes only in prayer. Diligency suggests they actually do something. Prayer can be ponderous and slow." It was quibbling, that teasing and over word choices, and Jack's grin was lazy. It wasn't an argument, there wasn't any weight behind the pendulum swing on either end.
He watched as one woman pronounced on luck - to a gambler, thank you, Cat - and the other demanded the heavens provide. Jack shrugged off the suggestion that guilt was relative - it was all relative, that was the point. Life was slush, rather than white or black - and curled an eyebrow at Cat when the volley was tossed back, albeit with less vim than Cat's own pronouncement.
"I'm not actually going to enter the fray," he said, amused. "Not when it might cost me more in vodka."