The whole ordeal is over within moments but for Holley it lasts for a long time. It's always hardest when they have will, sometimes he wishes they wouldn't, but it pleases him all the same. It's so rare to find a human with such a will that it stings to snuff them out and Holley thinks the reason most reapers are entirely emotionless is because of that.

It's hard to break will.

They almost always succeed. If the person wins then it isn't their time to go, now is it?

Holley makes his invisible way out of the crowded restaurant, soul quivering in his arms. Dead people are weightless but hard to carry. The burden of life is just as hard to carry and the freshly deceased are disoriented and panicked until they realize that it's time to relax now and that Holley's got them and shhh, it's okay. Everything is fine now. Your burden and the weight on your sweltering back is gone, and I have taken it.

A lot of people die on Easter. Diabetics, mostly.

Holley likes Easter, not because of that fact, but because of the candy. When he isn't on duty he makes a point to visit a yard or two and take some eggs for himself for later, or for travel.

Easter is a bunch of bullshit, he knows, and he knows of many cringing nature specialist reapers who dislike this time of year. Too many bunny adoptions that end in tears.

It is raining, the sidewalk is wet, and the creature in his arms becomes one with the misting damp as he wills it to. Holley is tall and unseen amongst the throngs of people, above the sea of black umbrellas. He can hear their internal clocks tick-tick-ticking, he can feel the ones he will visit later as they brush past him, through him, and he feels no guilt.

It's the way it must be.

Holley dips into Vito's and raises his squat hand in a half-hearted and antisocial wave to the owner, a ghul, and gets a cannoli because he needs it. Vito's is not owned by Vito but Francisco and Francisco's child is kin to Holley in the sense that they both deal with the same bullshit every Easter as well.

Holley doesn't know many other reapers, doesn't want to, doesn't know many other people, doesn't think he should. He wouldn't want to subject them to that kind of bored anguish. He's fine with it, he thinks, as he vacuums the entire cannoli into his mouth while walking past a gaggle of avidly snickering park fairies.

It's done raining but the park benches are slick, beaded with water and covered in homeless people. Holley hugs a bullet-shattered temple to his chest and wills the owner to still, please still, please stop crying. Panicking only makes it worse.