A response to Livia's challenge: write a Smallville story using an episode title from the X-Files

He lifts the flask up, letting the light shine through the clear, colorless liquid. Lets his mind wander, imagining he can see the microscopic strands floating there.

Two weeks ago he walked in on Martha Kent trimming her son's unruly hair. When they turned their backs he reached out, just to touch, just to see if those strands were as silken as they looked. Gripped by unbidden thoughts he pocketed this new source of material. Despite what he had told Nixon, Lex still has his questions, his suspicions. One quick test. He convinced himself that's all it would take. Simple sequencing would show how frail, how very normal, Clark was. It would put his mind at rest. So he told himself.

He wonders what it is about him that won't let secrets lie. He briefly rethinks his position on too much information. Mostly, though, he wants to return to that moment and leave the tiny threads where they were because there's nothing simple about them.

He isn't a geneticist. He can't say anything about the meaning of the material currently sitting in the flask. He can say, though, that it belongs to Clark Kent and that it's not human.

Not human.

He laughs mirthlessly at the gross understatement.

It's not of this earth.

When he first analyzed the sample, it had appeared normal. Above and beyond normal. The intertwining of the two threads, the arrangement of base pairs had all seemed perfect, flawless. Like Clark. It wasn't until he looked closer that the differences became apparent.

It's too perfect. Each strand an exact copy, without deviance, without mutation. And it is strong. Unbreakable.

It can't be degraded. Not by earthly means, anyway. Doses of UV radiation that would usually destroy the delicate double helix instead enhance it. Cauterizing the bonds, strengthening the chain. He idly wonders if Clark knows this, if this is why his skin is always so golden.

He sets the flask down carefully, reaching with his free hand for the small lead box. He opens the lid, watching intently as the contents of the flask begin to glow faintly. Knows the greenish tint is simply a byproduct of molecular break down that will cease as soon as he removes the meteor rock. He's watched this, under the microscope, as the bonds begin to break causing the genetic material to fall apart.

Destroyed.

He can taste the bile rising up in his throat. He can kill Clark. By all rights, he should have already. Neither of them should have survived the crash. But it's worse now, he thinks, because he's the only one, maybe other than the Kent's themselves, that knows how to completely undo whatever kind of life Clark is.

He looks at the flask again. He stares at it, judging the distance from the edge of his desk. Just a little push, a slight tap, would send the flask crashing to the concrete floor. He could destroy all the evidence that easily. Eliminate every mention of the strange sample from the files, burn the hard copies. Wonders if there is a way to erase the knowledge from his brain as well.

Convinces himself it's best that he knows. That it's okay that Clark didn't tell him. Maybe he can develop an antidote, a serum of some kind to protect Clark against his one weakness. He can offer his friend something of infinite value. A gift he may one day accept.

Reaching out, he slowly pulls the flask back from the edge, sets it squarely in the middle of the desk and thinks about the possibilities.