Author's Note: I am obsessed with Logan Echolls. Obsessed. And I hate how he gets treated because he life really sucks and I just want to take him in and bake him snickerdoodles, even though he would hate every minute of it.

rubber-band man

Logan breaks my heart.

Sometimes I really hate Veronica.


Rubber-bands, they stretch, you see. You hook each end around a finger and pull and pull and pull and they just stretch right along with you, it's like there's no limit to how far they can push themselves. And when you let go—whap! Right back to position, no harm, no foul, just the same as before.

Worn a little, maybe.

His mother used to call him her little Rubber-band Man. He heals so quick, used to fall down and bounce right back up like it was nothing. Can't keep an Echolls down, Logan, you remember that. Lose a sports game? Work out until you puke and destroy them next time. Fail a test? Pay off the teacher. Get beaten into a pulp by your scumbag of a father? Chicks dig scars.

Echolls, they bounce. Trina, see, she is an A-I bouncer. Couldn't keep that girl down if you tied her with handcuffs. Always bounces higher on the second try. She was Dad's favorite, Dad's little angel, yeah, he always loved that he could beat the shit out of her boyfriends and she'd just come back with more.

Logan, though, he's more of a stretching kind of guy. You can fill him up with all the broken-tipped pencils and ink-empty pens you want, just keep shoving them in, give him all the leftovers, he'll make room. Logan never learned to bounce, but God, he can stretch. He can stretch and stretch and stretch and right when you let go—and everyone always lets go—whap.

No harm. No foul. Just the same as before.

Logan's pretty used to getting left behind. Duncan, his Mom, Lilly, Trina, Veronica, the nameless cronies that moved in and out of his life without much note. He's learned to stretch for that too, learned to recognize when he's about to snap back in on himself, when they're about to pull their fingers away and leave him. He'll snap back. Doesn't bounce, no, never quite managed that, but—

He doesn't tell them that it hurts. The pain is so fleeting, by now, it's hardly worth mentioning. The quick sting, the smarting aftershock, the moment of wondering with disbelief how he can possibly be so worthless, how he can possibly be such a monumental fuck up that he pushes away the people he mot desperately wants to keep close. (Bye, Lilly, Duncan, Veronica, Mom. Bye, Beaver. Bye, Dad. Bye, anyone who ever gave a flying shit.)

He can't list a single person that hasn't come to their senses a few years in, hasn't finally looked at how far Logan Echolls has stretched himself and realized they don't want to be around for the collapse. Don't want to catch him as he snaps back into place, don't want to feel the smarting burn of loss that he's become so familiar with.

Everyone he loves will leave him. It's a lesson he's learned well. Some will go so far as to die to get away, like Mom—others simply vanish, like Duncan—others stick around, looking at him with those accusing eyes that say you will never be good enough, like Veronica.

(She looks at him and he wonders what the hell she sees because she can't possibly hate him more than he hates himself, these days.)

So they all come and they all go and Logan—well. Logan Echolls, he'll stretch. He'll stretch until someone finally pulls him just a little too thin and then—


He wonders if she'll miss him, when he's gone.