Chapter Text
If Eric Chapman was being honest, he was pretty sure almost nothing happened in Piffling Vale before Superman showed up.
When he got to the island, there were barely enough people for it to be called a village, much less a town. But with Superman bringing the press of not only England but the entire world, it seemed like there were new people flooding to Piffling every day. Businesses were booming more than ever before, especially if they had Superman merchandise, and everyone found that their small little village was rapidly surpassing the population fit for a town and growing closer to becoming a city . This gave the people of Piffling their greatest idea yet: what better way to gain more tourists than to tell everyone about Superman themselves?
The Piffling Vale Journal was steadily turning into one of the most internationally read newspapers of all time, which made it a bustling and stressful, but incredibly exciting place to work. Because Eric Chapman was one of the lead reporters on the Superman incidents in London, he was quickly hired to the Journal and rose through the ranks. He was frightened moving to a new place and new job that he wouldn’t be able to integrate into society smoothly, but for the most part everyone was busy but friendly. There was, however, one employee that Chapman could not get his head around. Despite trying on every occasion to be pleasant and inviting to him, he refused to converse with Chapman like a regular person.
Honestly, how was Rudyard Funn - who was possibly the most rude, self-centred, arrogant, and just generally unpleasant man Chapman had ever met - still working at the Piffling Vale Journal?
Sure, he used to work as an undertaker giving him the perfect skill set required for writing obituaries. Sure, he has a sister Antigone who is currently the only undertaker on the island updating him every time another person died. Sure, he just so happened to be acquaintances with Georgie Crusoe, the editor’s personal assistant. And sure, he was only the obituary writer despite being out in the field all the time, asking about the deceased person and putting them in the newspaper whether they liked it or not. But seriously, how did anyone manage being around such an awful person all the time and not just completely snap?
God knows Chapman did. After a while, he found himself giving into Rudyard’s ridiculous defensive behaviour. Though Chapman tried to keep up his pleasant demeanour, the moment Rudyard Funn locked eyes with him he felt for the first time in his life his self control slip away. He would have to be a lot more careful if he were to make sure nothing happened…
Oh yeah, it might be worth it to mention, Eric Chapman is actually Superman.
Everyone on Piffling, even Rudyard, had read Chapman’s story in the London Times of how the baby Kryptonian arrived on Earth as a baby and grew up among humans. Everyone knew about Superman’s extensive list of powers, and extensive list of enemies. The biggest of which being Majorie Smith - no corny villain name, but all the evil genius of the worst of the worst. The first thing Superman had done when he’d gotten to Piffling was make sure she was locked up in jail where she couldn’t hurt anybody else.
Superman had been saving kittens out of trees and stealing the hearts of Piffling residents for about 6 months before Chapman officially moved to the island, and everyone was astounded. Everyone except for maybe Rudyard, who seemed pretty unfazed by the whole Superman endeavour (making him even more infuriating ).
And that’s how his day started (the way most of Chapman’s days started as a matter of fact), with Rudyard Funn being infuriating.
“Chapman!”
“Rudyard what could it possibly be this time, I’m very busy and I doubt there’s much I can help you with in terms of obituaries.”
“Very funny Chapman, but there is something I think you can help me with.”
Chapman struggled to push down thoughts that were not appropriate for an office setting. Rudyard rolled his eyes and slapped a file on Chapman’s desk, leaning on the wall separating his cubicle from his neighbour’s.
“What on Earth is this…?” Chapman wondered flipping through the pages in the file, “The Prophitte crime family? Rudyard why are you gathering intel on them ?”
“It just so happens that while you were out following after Superman like a lost puppy, I’ve been doing my job.” Rudyard snarled swiping the files out of Chapman’s hands. “One of the key members, Seymour Prophitte, had been hiding here on Piffling since Superman showed up - something about greater security. Anyways Antigone informed me he’s just been killed, stabbed to death by a waitress he groped. Editor Desmond says I need to get his obit in the paper immediately, it could bring in top sales and be a huge boost for my career. I have to get the story in the paper in the stands on time!”
“Why would you think I know anything or have anything to do with the Prophitte crime family of all things?”
“It seemed like something you would know about, you know with your fancy and prestigious London journalism awards that you won’t let anyone around here forget about. Something so ridiculously high profile seems right up your Conveniently Deserted Alley.”
“I swear you live to offend me Rudyard, you’re going to have to be more careful if you’re going up against the Prophitte’s. I’m sure they're a lot less forgiving then I am about reporters who can’t control their mouths.”
“I resent that Chapman! I know there’s something shady about you, you can’t hide it from me forever!”
“Go back to work Rudyard.” Chapman snapped back. “You’re much better with the dead then you ever were with the living.”
He watched Rudyard sputter out unintelligible sentences, apparently too flustered and angry to form any actual words, before Georgie showed up.
“What’s going on here?” Georgie said, more a statement then a question.
“Oh hello Georgie! Rudyard and I were just catching up, swapping stories about our articles…” Chapman smiled, “But I think he was just leaving to get back to work, weren't you Rudyard?”
Rudyard glared at Chapman’s fake smile before storming off in a huff that caused many to look up from their computers to see what the fuss was about.
“Such a drama queen…” Georgie sighed as she watched Rudyard fume out of the room, “Oh well, catch you later Eric.”
“Oh Georgie actually…!” Chapman started, but Georgie had already left before he could ask her to get coffee.
Probably for the best I guess, Chapman thought to himself, can’t be sleeping around the office no matter how fascinating the person is…
***
As weeks passed and deadlines came and went, Chapman noticed Rudyard’s desk get more and more cluttered with photos of Seymour Prophitte. God knows where he had gotten them, as Rudyard hadn’t spoken with Chapman since the first time he brought Prophitte up, which was perfectly fine by him. While Chapman admired the man’s dedication and resilience, he couldn’t help the feeling of dread and - what was that, worry? - that crept up every time he walked passed Rudyard’s desk to find him buried in files and photographs of one of the sons of the most dangerous crime families in the UK.
Which was ridiculous, because why would he be worried about Rudyard of all people? He hated Rudyard, with his rude remarks and ugly sweater vests and devastatingly defined bone structure.
So honestly, he could have been more surprised when he heard Rudyard yelling from the roof of the Piffling Vale Journal, 5 floors above where he was currently sitting at his desk. He looked around to see if anyone else had heard it, before deciding it was probably his super hearing doing him a favour and racing up to the roof. When he got there, he found Rudyard surrounded by a group of 4 huge, burly men and one shorter, stouter man behind them. He managed to hide on the side of the cement structure that contain the stairs down to the rest of the building, close enough to hear the conversation without being seen by Rudyard or the other - arguably more frightening - people on the roof.
“Don’t lie to me boy,” the short man rasped, “no one kills one of my sons and gets away with it.”
“Please Mr. Prophitte,” Rudyard begged, “I had absolutely nothing to do with your son’s disappearance and death. I was merely doing research for an obituary…”
“You were poking your nose in where it didn’t belong.” Mr. Prophitte spat out. “All for some bloody newspaper article. No reporter has yet to expose our business because no reporter has ever dared. I guess I’ll just have to make you an example so that this doesn't happen again.”
A wave of panic rushed through Chapman as he ripped open his dress shirt to reveal his Superman costume. He quickly removed his glasses and the rest of his work clothes and managed to swoop in right as two of Mr. Prophitte’s body guards picked up Rudyard and threw him off the edge of the 20 story building.
He caught Rudyard with ease about 5 stories down, though Rudyard kept screaming long after he had him in his arms. By the time his feet touched the ground of the roof however, he had mostly calmed down and was just hyperventilating slightly. Chapman used the handcuffs in the bodyguard’s pockets (thanks, x-ray vision) to handcuff them as well as Mr. Prophitte to some piping on the roof before using his direct line to the police captain to let him know he had a key member of the Prophitte crime family and some goons in custody. He had almost forgotten Rudyard was there until he tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey Superman?”
“Yes Mr. Funn?”
“Listen,” Rudyard started looking less shaken then he probably should have been, “if ever you come across a bloke named Eric Chapman-“
Chapman almost choked instead of inhaling.
“You can tell him that in response to the last thing he said to me, talking to the dead is a lot less infuriating then talking to him. At least the dead respect me enough not to go out of their way to try and ruin my life.” Rudyard smirked, seemingly pleased with his comeback.
Chapman was speechless for a moment.
“You… You were falling to your death,” Chapman said hesitantly, “And all you could think about was getting that last word? Is winning an argument really that important to you?
“You don't know Eric Chapman mate…”
And oh, wasn’t that ironic.
“Thanks for the lift though!” Rudyard called over his shoulder, before making his way to the door to get back into the building. He gave Chapman a tight smile before descending down the steps, presumably back to his desk.
***
Chapman didn't know why that encounter affected him so much. Superman saved people on the daily, getting kittens out of trees and stopping terrorist attacks… Sure, it wasn’t everyday he saved someone he worked with, someone he knew as Eric Chapman, but even that had happened before and hadn’t been this weird.
No, it was something about Rudyard. For weeks, he couldn’t put his finger on it, until he met eyes with Rudyard in the halls of the Journal. Rudyard’s eyes went narrow, his lips went thin - but instead of the usual grimace, the corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes had a glint of amusement.
Just like they did on the roof that night as he told Superman his stupid comeback.
The last thing Rudyard had thought about before falling to his presumed death wasn’t Superman like it was for most people. It wasn’t begging to be saved by him, or regrets for never meeting him… Hell Rudyard, didn’t even think about his family or friends (who knew, maybe he had some somewhere…)
Rudyard Funn, falling to his death, thought of Eric Chapman. Once Chapman came to this realization, he couldn't keep it out of his brain.
He started looking at Rudyard differently. Their usual banter started back up again, and Chapman found it was more fun than annoying now - seeing how far he could push Rudyard. Admiring the way his eyebrows would raise and chin would lift if he said something he thought was clever, or how his mouth would hang open and a brilliant scarlet blush would backdrop his freckles if Chapman had a clever comeback to match…
But Chapman noticed a switch in Rudyard’s behaviour too. Because of his obituary on Seymour Prophitte, he had been promoted to a reporter and his first story was a recount of his first hand experience with the Prophitte’s - and with Superman. As a matter of fact, Rudyard’s blasé attitude towards Superman melted away after the whole incident as he became more and more interested in Superman’s whereabouts and goings-on. There was one time in the hallway where he bumped into Rudyard and literally hundreds of photos of Superman tumbled out of his arms and onto the floor. He offered to help pick them up, but Rudyard swatted his gestures away with challenging eyes and an intensely red face.
And as much as the look he had when he was deep in thought and focused on a task - the one where his nose scrunched up and his eyebrows creased together and his lips twisted - gave Chapman a strange butterfly sensation in his stomach, it would not do for Rudyard to get too close to the secrets Superman was hiding.
So predictably, the pent up stress residing in both of them turned into one of their famous yelling matches.
“Rudyard, why can’t you just let me do my job? Last time I checked I was the lead reporter on the Superman stories at this newspaper, not you.”
“Well you haven't been doing a very good job on it have you? No first hand accounts, no interviews, not even a glimpse as to who the real man might be… Plus, Mr. Desmond says with the rising number of incidents taking place, two reporters might be better suited for covering him - so yes, Chapman, the days of you stealing my spotlight are long gone!”
“Why do you even care about Superman anyways? He doesn’t strike me as your type of story…”
“Trust me, he’s my type."
“What?”
“Nothing, he’s gross and I hate him. Look Chapman, it’s time to face the formaldehyde-“
“Ew.”
“-I am going to get an interview and find out who that man is behind the symbol, and there is nothing you and your dorky glasses can do about it. And when I do find out, I’m going to tell it right to his beautifully chiseled face.”
“WHAT?”
“WHAT? NOTHING SHUT UP!” Ruydard practically screamed before taking a breath and shuddering out “Oh god I’m turning into Antigone…”
Chapman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Okay first of all Rudyard, these glasses are Dior and cost more than your entire ensemble put together. And secondly, you used to run the obituary until a few weeks ago. What makes you think you are good enough to cover a story as high-profile as Superman’s secret identity?”
“We will see Chapman,” Rudyard chuckled, “We will see.”
He turned around and walked back to his desk before he could get another word in. Chapman wiped his face with his hands before looking around and noticing almost the entire staff of the Piffling Vale Journal looking at him with curious if not exasperated amusement. Chapman quickly ran to the men’s room, wishing his alien biology had excluded the ability to blush.