the headless scarecrow

Hay was fucking itchy. Arlo was sure that if he’d never have to step foot near it again, he’d be the happiest cow alive. How did Ichabod expect him to pretend to be a scarecrow for three hours? He didn’t even have the attention span for that!

“Doin’ good over there, Arlo?” Ichabod’s voice rang through his comms, hushed.

“I would rather be stabbed by a knife than all this pokey hay, Ichabod. So, yeah, doin’ just great.” He hissed into the microphone and heard Ichabod’s laugh come through. At least he had that going for him. Making Ichabod laugh was a very tough challenge. Maybe he was feeling merciful. Probably not, since Arlo was still strung up.

“Good to hear, buddy.”

Buddy? Arlo must have been dreaming. Ichabod generally doesn’t like him enough to call him that. Or anything kind, for that matter.

“You’re such a bitch, you know that?”

“Scarecrows don’t talk.” That’s what it was. Ichabod was having fun at his expense.

Their target approached the area, and Arlo forced himself to stay still. His clothes were tattered-- they generally are but this was a whole new level-- and he, thankfully, appeared like a scarecrow, loose head and all.

Ichabod snorted through the comms and Arlo wanted to hit him. So bad. He’d wait though, he could be patient enough until they got what they needed and got home.

In a whisper, Arlo mumbled, “You got eyes, Crane?”

“Mhm. I’m watching. Keep your wits about you, Hallow.”

He’s not sure how, but it always sends a rush of adrenaline through his system when they use their codenames like it’s real.

With a twitch, his head dangled dangerously, much like a broken scarecrow who’d been out there too long. This way he could at least see through all the corn he was surrounded by.

It was going to be a long three hours, he noticed, as the nearest corn husk to him swooped lower with a breeze and tickled his shoulder. A long three hours indeed.