Disclaimer : I do not own Smallville, any of its characters, or anything associated.

Author's Note : I know it's not the most original idea, but I haven't read much of the fanfiction here yet to tell if it's already been so overdone that it's become mundane. I do hope people enjoy it, because I love this show a great deal and I want to do it's adaptation of the characters justice.

I've really been wanting to test the waters and write for a new fandom for a while, but I've been too afraid. So, I decided that being fearful isn't going to get me anywhere, and I need to leap right in if I want to write for something I really love.

So please review. Just because I jumped in doesn't mean I want to drown. ;)

(I've only seen about eight full-length episodes from season one of Smallville. I've seen various clips from each season, but that really is far as my knowledge of the show goes. This is a futurefic, so I'm taking what I know of those first few episodes, Superman itself, and a little of Justice League to come up with this. So please excuse any mistakes that may contradict future seasons that I do not know of as of yet. Thanks!)

Man's Vices

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

- Oscar Wilde

There was silence, and it was strange.

The office was always bustling, so-called important people bursting in and out with a pathetic practiced arrogance, probably stemmed from watching late night criminal sitcoms, that revealed more than it could hide. Papers normally lined his desk, covering the expensive wood in stacks so high it was almost humorous.

Almost.

Maybe he'd laugh later, Lex mused, twisting his hand to observe how the amber liquid swirled in its diamond-cut glass. Right now, that grotesque kind of movement and sound simply felt very far away.

Too far.

Though he had just contradicted the notion, a dark chuckle trickled out his throat before he lifted his drink to his waiting lips. Maybe he should ask his graciously endowed friend to go...fly out and get it for him. With all the good deeds he'd be indulging in lately, he probably wouldn't mind one more. This wasn't even as complicated as rescuing sixteen petrified victims out of a burning bus, as he had just this morning, or snatching a certain overly curious reporter from the jaws of accursed death, which seemed to happen very, very often when he thought about it.

No, Lex knew Clark wouldn't mind at all.

Of course, Superman might.

Superman, the recent red and blue blur, almost like a living Monet painting, that had made its grand appearance as Metropolis' much needed savior. Perhaps he should be referring to it as 'he,' Lex pondered as he shifted the weight of his hand to hear the clink of ice break the soundless tomb. No, he decided before taking another sip; 'It' suited Superman just fine.

Lex placed his glass carefully on his recently polished desk, pushing it a few centimeters away with the tips of his fingers so he could spread out the newspaper that had previously been folded up on the side with negligence. The broadsheet style captured the entire surface, gray paper even tipping off the edges somewhat. The headline glared back at him, deformed and shadowed, hugely blocked in black ink with one of the letters haphazardly smeared from where whoever picked up his personal copy from the printer's had grabbed it carelessly.

Lex made a mental note to fire him tomorrow.

"Metropolis' Own 'Man of Steel" blared up at him in grand capital letters, leaving only a tiny amount of space between the picture beneath it.

Huge, and somehow in-color, the triumphant face of Superman stared off to the right. Lex's hand trailed down the page, passed the slicked back hair and overly-broad shoulders, down to the blatant symbol etched along his chest. His bright blue and sickeningly patriotic red costume, for what else could it be called, felt larger than life against the black and white, but hadn't Clark always been larger than life? The outfit was silly, childish, something someone who was still a little naive would have put together.

There was even a cape.

Lex would have laughed at him when Clark came to him with the design. He'd have pointed out its immaturity while Clark would frown in that somehow still young way of his. He'd have to listen up to a dozen reasons stemmed from a boy's logic, and Lex would end it by shaking his head and clapping Clark on the shoulder. Clark would smile, the one that made Lex think it had to hurt to grin that big, and Lex would stride back over to his desk chair, gesturing with one hand for Clark to continue like he always did.

At least, that's what would have happened. What could have happened. What should have happened.

If Clark had told him.

Lex jerked his fingers away from the picture quickly, biting his tongue to keep from uttering a curse when he knocked his hand against the glass. It tipped over with a pitiful crack, the brown liquid seeping through its gaping mouth mournfully and onto the spread paper. The light gray soaked and distorted, text melting into an illegible sepia-toned haze as the rivers branched off into streams, shrinking into tiny veins and splatters that corrupted all they could. They met again in the center, flowing upon the courageous face being displayed, spreading the ink over the image until it looked horrid, disgusting. Lex didn't fight the contentment the scene sent shooting through him, only stood to keep the liquid from spilling on his clothes, and stepped towards the window that took up the wall behind him.

Someone would clean that up later.

Lex Luthor was glad he could not see Superman's face anymore. The image made him sick. The confident, godly smile, the gelled hair, all the little things that were specific to Superman...none of them could hide the fact that it was Clark Kent.

A fist banged against the glass, the weak, almost sad noise it echoed was the only thing keeping the owner of the hand from repeating the action.

It was insulting.

The months that passed by, the years they danced around the issue and pretended that they could be friends, where there had always been a question and never an answer, just meek deflections and excuses that were as flimsy as a house of cards. And when the cards had finally come flying down, neither had liked the man they could now see on the other side.

So much investigation, thousands, who was he kidding, millions of dollars spent on tests and inquiries, trying to satiate the ravenous curiosity he could not tame, and there it was, staring at him right out of the morning paper.

How could Clark believe Lex wouldn't know?

That fact led to the point that he couldn't. Not even Clark was that naive.

And so the point in question, why?

Or was it, how?

How could this Superman come forward with his heroic deeds and impossible strength, brilliant lasers shooting from his eyes like a science fiction fan's dream...

How could Clark, when they were friends, best friends, keep his secret, his gifts, from him, and yet announce it all wildly to the world as if no one would ever...

Why would Clark want him to find out this way...on the front page of the Daily Planet, instead of from a friend?

There had been the room, Lex mused while he stared out at the surrounding skyscrapers (none as grand as his own), and the distrust that had lain in wait, sown like seeds waiting for the rays from the sun of doubt to allow them to bloom. Yet there was no excuse there, because that had been the end of the era of what he called their friendship.

There had been a beginning, and a middle, and plenty of time in between all that to give trust.

Lex knew about secrets. He was a Luthor! He understood the need to keep things hidden and protected. How could Clark even think that he would betray...

But that was the answer there, wasn't it? He was a Luthor. That was all they had ever seen him as.

Even Clark.

For a reason unknown to himself at the time, Lex glanced over his suited shoulder at the sopping mess than had one been a face. Before its destruction, he had skimmed through the article, if not somewhat briefly. It was all trivial information though, the fantastic deeds he had done, the daily count of the number of people he had saved since the oh so super Superman flew into Metropolis one whole month ago.

A month.

And Lex had not yet seen him.

Oh, he was sure he could have. It would be as simple as taking a brisk walk to wherever the recent escapade had taken place. Superman always stayed for questions, pictures, to give reassurance to the people that he would always be there to make sure everyone would be alright.

Everyone.

Well Clark, Lex thought while walking across the room to pour himself a new drink, eying the scotch as it tumbled and sloshed along the bottom, you've certainly failed in that regard.

He raised his glass in a mock-toast before letting it slide down his throat, allowing himself to fall deeper into his recollections.

But Lex did not want to see Superman. He didn't want to gaze upon the man people now honored as "faster than a speeding bullet," and only get a glimpse of Clark Kent, farm-boy extraordinaire. Lex could already predict the result as two things. He'd either see a face full of sorrow, of apology and silent pleading, or one that was stone cold.

Lex wasn't sure he could survive either at the moment.

Stepping away from the cabinet that had relinquished the prey now in his hands, Lex meandered back towards the window, his stance now casual and relaxed to the unpracticed viewer.

After Clark had deserted him, he hadn't hated him. Lex debated that internally, turning the idea over in his mind to check all angles.

No, he hadn't. He had been furious, and incredibly betrayed. However, anger and betrayal are not hate. They are emotions, and emotions could change if the owner of them so desired, or if the one causing those emotions so wished. There had still been a chance, he liked to believe, even with all the horrible, immoral, and illegal things he had done, that if Clark had stepped up, come clean like the man and friend he seemed to think he was, that Lex would not be where he was now. He would be in Smallville, not Metropolis, maybe shooting a few rounds of pool with Clark, not brooding over his treachery.

Lex knew he hated Clark now.

Fury had been hot, a burning coil that twisted around his heart and soul, always on fire, always choking him for an outlet to release the ash and charred remains. It had been difficult to hide, strenuous to control, something too wild and needing justice, or a twisted attempt at solace. It was a blaze that could have been tamed, maybe, with effort and time.

Hate was cold, bitterly cold. There was only emptiness, an icy contempt, and a frozen detachment. This was not something that could be thawed.

Perhaps it was because the anger had been at Clark, someone who he still respected, someone who represented something he had yearned for. It had only been for retribution really, what was fair, for both of them to fulfill what was expected of them, really. It could have changed.

But this hatred wasn't at Clark, because there really wasn't any Clark, was there?

No. There was no Clark Kent.

There was Superman.

And Lex Luthor could hate Superman.

It wasn't because of his costume, as laughable as it was, or because of his plainly stupid notion that he save the world from its happily corrupt ways. It wasn't because he would undoubtedly get in the way of Lex's carefully arranged plans, as annoying and tedious as the whole process of working around the "hero" would become.

It was because Superman reminded him of how human Clark was, or had been.

It almost made him want to laugh again, and he would've if he hadn't been holding a full glass to his lips once more.

Clark Kent had represented more than just a friend, once very long ago and far away. He had been a picture of the life Lex had always wondered about, with loving parents and friends who held him close to their hearts. Clark was innocent, and kind, and there were such few people like that left in the world anymore. Lex would glance at Clark and wonder how he was able to have and be all those things.

So when investigations led to dead ends, or findings brought him no answers, or when Clark gave him another faulty excuse after another, Lex had wanted to believe him. Subconsciously maybe, (or perhaps he was just thinking like that now to make it easier, because he knew he had wanted it) after all life had deemed necessary to show him, he had found someone who was honestly just perfect, ready to be trusted, and worth it all.

If Clark had told the truth and let his so called alien roots slip, Lex would have believed him instantly, because how could any human being be that good. But Clark was that good, and for a few precious years he had given his faith back to humanity.

But then Clark Kent lied.

And now he was dashing through the air with a few yards of crimson fabric blowing behind him, with the world calling him 'hero.' The world had their Last Son of Krypton, as they so eloquently bestowed him, an otherworldly being that saved them from their own moronic faults.

But Lex knew the truth. Superman was as human as any person he saved.

Because Superman and Clark were not as perfect as anyone could believe. They lied, they betrayed, they kept secrets and locked others out when they reached out to them. They succumbed to petty suspicions, hatred, let jealousy cloud their judgement rather than see the answers glowing in front of them.

He may be an "alien," but that only means he wasn't born on this planet. Clark as human as they can get.

As flawed.

As cruel.

As imperfect.

And that is why Lex Luthor hated him.