This story was not my idea - it was suggested to me over a year ago by my wonderful BR, Iolanthe. My very grateful thanks go to her - not only for the initial suggestion, but also for again being willing to beta my fic. As usual, her points were valid and her advice sound.
Thanks also to Deja Vu who is definitely the comma queen
and who also betaed this and tried to straighten out my grammar!
Rating - PG 13
Disclaimer - Clark Kent, Lois Lane and many other characters in this fic are not mine.
Posting schedule - twice a week, but generally parts are longer than usual.
B.A.M.R. - low.
Background - it's 1996. Clark Kent has worked at the Daily Planet for a couple of years.
There will be further A/N at the end of this part.
Part 1
Clark Kent ducked through the airplane door and stepped into the jet bridge with genuine relief. He really didn't like flying.
Not like this.
His fellow passengers also seemed eager to escape the confines of the aircraft, and moments later he was in the wide hall that formed the central passage of the terminal. Streams of people flowed in both directions. Everyone seemed to have purpose; everyone seemed to know where they were going.
Except him.
Someone would meet him.
That was all he'd been told.
How he would know the person meeting him - or how that person would know him - had been left frustratingly unexplained.
Clark followed the crowd to the end of the hall and down a short escalator. He turned left, stopped at the baggage release, and waited for the carousel to begin moving. He'd been subjected to all the various Australian international checking stations in Sydney, so now in Melbourne, he was considered a domestic passenger.
He peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows to the world outside. The sun was shining weakly, but the temperature-controlled atmosphere of the airport made it impossible to accurately judge the weather. Outside, some people wore jackets, but very few wore a coat.
July ... August, September, October, November, December, January ... he counted in his head. Southern hemisphere July should be roughly equivalent to northern hemisphere January. There was not the slightest indication of snow. It didn't even look particularly cold.
The baggage carousel began, and Clark waited until his suitcases appeared. He picked up both of them from the belt and took them to an out-of-the-way corner. What now?
A group of maybe eight or nine young men had congregated close to him. They were dressed alike in various styles of what he assumed was a sports jersey. All the variations were blue and gold. The group was loud and boisterous - singing and laughing raucously, slapping each others' backs, and high-fiving. One had a blue and gold flag, which he waved with seemingly scant regard for the safety of passers-by.
As Clark watched them, the guy with the flag nudged one of his friends. The group turned as one. Clark followed their eyes and saw the focus of their attention.
She was a brunette.
Petite.
With shoulder-length hair.
A perfectly proportioned body.
Scintillating brown eyes.
And an understated beauty that radiated from her like warmth on a cold day.
The crowd might be young and unruly, but they had flawless taste in women.
"Flinders!" one of the young men called as others wolf-whistled loudly.
The woman halted, but didn't look in their direction. Instead, she seemed to be looking for someone else.
The group sidled up her. "Hey, Flinders," one of the young men jeered.
They circled her, surrounding her, though she held her ground and didn't take refuge against the wall. Clark lost sight of her as she was engulfed by the taller, bulkier bodies of the youths. He picked up his suitcases and edged closer.
"Hey, Flinders, yer guttersnipe," the flag-holder said. "Leave the Eagles alone."
"Yeah," another added. "We won, Flinders, by seventeen points - we're third on the ladder and heading for our third flag."
"You said we couldn't win away from Subi, but we showed yer, didn't we, yer tiprat?" Their taunts fluctuated from triumph to disrespect and beyond to outright antagonism.
The raw edge of their hostility kindled Clark's uneasiness and he stepped closer.
The woman sighed. "Haven't you got a plane to catch?" she said, acting as if they - and this confrontation - bored her. Clark looked through the crowd - literally - and focussed on the woman. Her face held no fear; her demeanour said she didn't perceive the group to be any sort of threat she couldn't handle.
The young men though, were too inane to realise that she had their measure. "So Flinders, what do you have to say now?" one of them snarled. "Not so cocky now you can't hide behind a newspaper."
"I'm not hiding," she said in an even voice. Despite their number and group-dynamic anger, she gave the clear impression that she knew she was in control. "I said that I thought the Eagles would struggle to win enough games out of WA. I still think that."
"You were wrong, Flinders."
"The season isn't over yet," she told them nonchalantly. She stretched to her full height and looked past the group. "Haven't you fine examples of Western Australian manhood got a plane to catch?"
"We have plenty of time," the holder of the flag drawled. He stepped closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "Maybe you could show us a good time, Flinders. Show us Perth boys some Victorian hospitality."
In less than a second, Clark was beside the woman. "Take your hand off her," he ordered.
"What's it to you, Yank?" the man countered.
"I don't like your attitude to this lady."
"She's no lady," the man sneered. "She's Flinders."
"Take your hand off her," Clark repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Make me, Yank."
Clark grasped the man's wrist and slowly increased his pressure until the man's fingers sprang from the woman's shoulder. Clark stepped between them, meeting the antagonist eyeball to eyeball. The young man jerked his arm but was unable to free himself from Clark's hold.
They stared, both issuing an unspoken challenge, neither backing away. After a suspended moment, the man's eyes dropped. With a low, "Let's get out of here," he stepped back.
Clark released his wrist and watched as the group receded. He turned to the woman. "Are you all right?" he asked. "He didn't hurt you?"
"I was all right before you interfered," she informed him crisply.
Clark raised his hands in retreat. "Sorry," he said. "I just don't like to see guys roughing up a lady."
"They're harmless," she said. "They're hoons who've seriously overestimated their ability to hold booze, but they're harmless."
She glanced around again, and Clark knew she was about to leave him. He rammed his mind into overdrive, searching for anything that would give him a few more minutes with her. "Is your name really 'Flinders'?" he asked.
She shrugged, her attention elsewhere. "That's what they call me."
Clark held out his hand. "Good to meet you, Flinders."
She shook his hand, still distracted. Her hand was small, but her grip was firm. "Gotta go," she said. She walked away three steps and then turned. "Thanks," she threw over her shoulder. "And welcome to Oz."
He smiled, wishing he could find a way to extend her welcome. She half-smiled back and lifted her hand in farewell.
Clark stared as she walked out of his life. He swallowed, trying to moisten a mouth turned dry, and sucked in an immense breath, trying to calm his pounding heart.
She was stunning.
But he was so inept, he hadn't even managed to discover her name. Not her *real* name.
Clark returned to his suitcases and searched the airport for someone who might just be looking for an American reporter. In the rush to pack and catch his flight, he hadn't been told what he was supposed to do if no one met him. He didn't even know the name of the hotel where he was staying.
He had the name of the newspaper he was going to work for - the Herald Sun. He would have to get a cab and ask for their offices.
Suddenly, she was beside him again. The woman called 'Flinders'.
She eyed him speculatively. "You're Clark Kent?" she said, as if it were an accusation.
"Yes," he admitted, venturing into her brown eyes and discovering they were several depths of beautiful. "How did you know?"
She gestured to the 'CK' embedded in his battered suitcase. "You're American," she said. "You're here, waiting for someone. Your initials are CK." She shrugged. "It wasn't that hard."
He held out his hand, eager to feel the touch of her skin again. "Clark Kent," he said, smiling. "And you are?"
This time her handshake was accompanied by a meeting of their eyes. "Lois Lane, Herald Sun."
"Lois." That was perfect. So much better than Flinders.
"You're here to pick me up?" he asked.
Her gorgeous eyes sparkled and Clark realised his gaffe. "Not like that," she said. "But I'm on the lowest rung of the ladder, so I was sent to get you."
He sensed a need to apologise - for his clumsy line - if not for interrupting her day.
"Come on," she said, before he had the chance to speak. "My car's this way."
Lois led him across the ramp to the multi-storey car park and directed him to an old Jeep. She opened the trunk and Clark stowed his luggage. He automatically went to her door, planning to open it for her, only to remember that here, the driver sat on the other side of the vehicle.
She got into the Jeep and reached over from the driver's seat to unlock his door. He averted his eyes, but not before he'd seen her blouse dip low as she leant forward.
Clark settled into the seat, glad the task of putting on his seatbelt gave him a few moments to collect himself.
Lois backed out of the bay and whizzed competently through the car park. Within moments, they were on a freeway. "OK," she said decisively. "You're going to need a few survival skills."
He took the opportunity to turn his head to the right and gaze at her fully. "I am?"
"Or else there's going be a barbeque and you're going to be the skewered prawn."
"I am?" he repeated. Her presence had eroded his ability to make decent conversation.
"Firstly," she said. "Where are you?"
"Australia," he answered, wondering if he'd come across as even more brain-dead than he'd feared.
"Uh ... " she said. "Uh-stralia."
"Australia," he repeated, trying to copy her pronunciation.
She nodded her approval. "Which city?"
"Melbourne."
"Melburn," Lois corrected.
When she said it, the second syllable was hung somewhere between 'bun' and 'burn'. "Melburn, Uh-stralia," he said, trying to wield his tongue in obedience to her.
"Melburn," she said patiently.
He repeated it again and was rewarded with a smiling glance.
"What am I?" Lois asked.
Clark stared at her, and it took considerable effort to keep his lower jaw from dangling onto his chest. Surely that had to be a loaded question. She glanced at him - waiting for his answer - looking impossibly guileless.
Beautiful? Sexy? Enchanting? Hot? Gorgeous? The possibilities careered through his mind.
He said nothing, deciding it would be preferable to keep his mouth shut and appear clueless than to open it and remove all doubt.
"What nationality am I?" Lois said.
Oh. "Australian?" he speculated, remembering to get the 'uh' sound at the beginning.
She grinned. "I'm an Aussie," she said. She pronounced it 'Ozzie'. "Not an 'Arrrrssssssie'," she said with a giggle.
"Ozzie," he agreed weakly.
"Next thing," Lois said. "You will be given a nickname ... today. You probably won't like it, but if you show any aversion to it, you'll either be stuck with it for the term of your natural life, or it will change to something even worse."
"Like 'Flinders'?" he guessed.
She nodded.
"How did someone like you get 'Flinders'?" he asked.
"There's a Flinders Lane in the city," Lois said easily. "Named after Matthew Flinders, the explorer. Also there's a crude song with a reference to Flinders. Every Aussie bloke sang it when he was a kid." She shrugged, lifting her petite shoulders. "It amuses them."
"Can I call you Lois?" Clark asked, knowing he would regardless of her answer.
She lifted her hand from the steering wheel in a 'whatever' gesture. "The nickname they give you will seem harsh ... it might be Yank because you're American, or Septic Tank because that rhymes, or Four-Eyes because you wear glasses, or Pretty-Boy because you're tall and easy on the eyes and smell good and stick up for women."
He mentally shook his head at this, trying to deduce whether her final few words represented any form of approval. "OK."
"Next. Aussie humour can be cutting. They will say all sorts of things about you, stuff you might find offensive. Don't cower like a wimp, and if you've got any larrikin in you at all, it's going to come in very handy. Try to remember that they don't actually mean any harm. They say much worse about each other."
Somehow, he knew she spoke from the experience of being on the outside. Because she was a woman in a man's world. And a beautiful woman at that.
"Anything else?" he asked. A distant part of his brain insisted he would need this advice, but right now his primary motivation was to keep her talking so he could continue drinking in her beguiling accent while retaining the perfect excuse to stare at her.
Lois giggled, although she did make some sort of an attempt to cover it with a cough.
"What's funny?" Clark asked.
"Eltse," she said, in exact mimicry of his accent.
"What do you say?" he asked, puzzled. He hadn't realised that coming to an English-speaking country would pose language difficulties. He could speak over a dozen languages, but apparently Australian wasn't one of them.
"Elssse."
"Else," he copied.
"Good." The Jeep smoothly changed lanes and they continued whirring along the freeway. "What do you know about footy?"
"Footy?"
"Football," Lois clarified. "Australian Rules Football."
"Nothing."
Clark saw her eyebrow lift. "You *do* know you're here as a football journalist?" she questioned.
"Yes." That's what Perry had told him.
"You didn't think it would be wise to do some research?" There was curiosity, not reproof, in her tone.
"I didn't know I was coming until two hours before I got on the airplane," Clark said. "Pete, our chief sports writer, was supposed to come but he was diagnosed with mumps, so my editor asked me to fill in."
"Why did you agree?" she asked. "Are you in Sport?"
"No, I'm a general reporter."
"Front page stuff?" she said, without any sign of the deference that sometimes elicited.
Clark nodded and, feeling the need to give an explanation, added, "I enjoy sports, I enjoy new experiences ... it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up."
She glanced down to where his hand was resting on his thigh. "You're not married?"
"No."
Lois didn't respond to that. "I'll meet you tomorrow morning, six-thirty, in the park near your unit. Wear trackies and runners."
Clark wasn't sure what they would be doing - or indeed what he was supposed to wear - but he knew he wasn't going to object to spending time with Lois Lane. He dragged his attention back to what she was saying now.
"Who'j'barrack for?" she asked.
Clark could discern no meaning from the run-together of sounds other than to establish she had asked him a question. There was an upside to his confusion - it gave him a not-to-be-missed opportunity to study her. "Excuse me?" he said with a smile.
She glanced in his direction, not smiling overtly, though her eyes suggested she was enjoying their conversation. "Who'j'barrack for?" she repeated.
He laughed. Lois was beautiful. And natural. And friendly. And - despite some linguistic differences - easy to talk to. "Would you translate?" he requested. "Please?"
"Get used to it," Lois advised. "That's the question you will be asked over and over again."
"Will I be expected to have an answer?" he asked.
"You'll be hounded until you do."
"I'm not sure what the question is," Clark said honestly. "I'm going to find it difficult to give an answer."
His reply drew a smile from her, although her eyes didn't leave the road. "People are going to want to know which team you follow. Whatever you do, don't say you root for a team."
"So what should I say?"
"You barrack. You always barrack. Support is OK too. But never 'root'."
"Why? What does 'root' mean?"
For the first time, there seemed to be a tiny crack in her composure. "Have sex with."
"Oh." He took refuge in a sudden interest in the passing landscape. "Thanks for telling me."
"And that question is 'Who do you barrack for?' They don't want to know whatever American teams you support - they want to know which footy club you're going to follow."
"I thought that being a reporter, I would be a neutral observer."
Lois chuckled. "Good luck with that," she said.
Clark found himself smiling simply because Lois was. "I *won't* be a neutral observer?"
"Not unless you want to stick out even more."
Did he already stick out? Clark decided to move the conversation away from his differences. "Who do *you* barrack for?"
Lois grinned. "Everyone will be trying to get you to barrack for his club," she predicted.
"Well, at this stage, you have the inside running," Clark said. And not just in the football team stakes, he thought.
She shrugged.
"And a captive audience," Clark added. A captive audience who was willing to stay captive for as long as she wished and was more than willing to swear lifetime allegiance to her team if it earned him one smile.
Lois took her eyes from the road long enough to give him a full-body perusal and he stifled the desire to squirm. "I doubt you'd be a good fit with my team," she said, as she refocussed on the road.
That couldn't be good. "Why not?"
"Too fashionable."
"I'm too fashionable for your team?" he queried. "Or your team is too fashionable for me?"
"My club's colours are brown and gold," she explained.
Clark masked his reaction. "They're not particularly fashionable colours," he noted carefully.
Lois grinned easily. "Not at all," she agreed. "And we like it that way."
"Does this team have a name? This team of brown and yellow?"
She turned on him, head spinning. "Gold."
"They're called 'Gold'?" he asked.
"No," Lois corrected firmly. "The colours are brown and *gold*. Not yellow. Never yellow. Always gold."
"OK." He wouldn't make that mistake again. "I need a name if I'm going to answer the 'who do you barrack for' question."
"You don't have to barrack for my club," she said.
"You don't want me to?"
Lois shrugged again. "You should pick the club that fits."
"Who's the local team?"
She glanced at him. "You weren't kidding when you said you hadn't done any research, were you?"
"No."
"There are eleven local teams."
"*Eleven* teams?" Clark gasped. "In one city?"
"Close enough." She sighed, though he wasn't sure why.
"Perhaps I should hold off before deciding on my team," he said. Until I find out who the brown and gold team is, he thought.
"You'll get bagged for it and harassed to make a decision and it'll be harder to fit in if you don't have a team. But then, if you choose one, you'll offside everyone else."
"I'll tell them I'm thinking about it."
"Good idea - for now." Lois smiled and it seemed like approval and Clark lapped it up. Her smile was pure magic. "Because once you've chosen your club, it's yours for life."
"No changing? Even if you move location?"
"No changing." Lois easily switched lanes and followed the left fork of the road. "You'll go to the pub tonight," she said. "Whether you're a drinker or not, you need to go."
"Will you be coming?"
"I'm female."
He was well aware of that. Too aware. "Surely that doesn't mean you can't go?"
"I *can* go," Lois said. "But I get enough of a testosterone overdose at work - I don't need it after hours as well."
Did she consider him nothing more than an addition to her 'testosterone overdose'?
"They'll tell you it's your shout," Lois said. "Count how many people are at your table, including yourself, and go to the bar and ask for that many VBs. If they tell you they want something else, ignore them. Just get the VBs. Take them back to the table and give everybody one. Drink yours at the same pace as they drink theirs. Don't be conned into drinking any faster, no matter how much they goad you."
They were now heading east, still on a freeway. Clark wondered how long before they arrived at the Herald Sun offices and realised that despite his long hours of travelling, he felt absolutely no desire for this part of his journey to end.
Lois continued, "When everyone has finished their drinks, they'll probably tell you it's your shout again. Do *not* be talked into it. Just keep saying that you've already shouted. If they persist, tell them it's 'unAustralian'."
"OK."
"Someone else will shout and bring you a beer. Drink it, and then tell them you're jetlagged and leave."
Clark realised he was placing a lot of trust in someone he barely knew. What if she was in cahoots with the rest? Whoever they might be? What if this was a big laugh at his expense? Initiation maybe? "Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
She accelerated to pass a slow-moving truck. "Because the way things stand, we're on the bottom rung together. If you play your cards right and don't step too far outside the acceptable norms, you'll move up."
"And you *want* this to happen?" he asked, crushed.
"Of course I do."
"Why?"
She looked at him as if should be obvious. "The Yank and The Sheila," she said derisively.
"Your name's Lois," Clark pointed out, puzzled.
She shook her head. "Sheila is a woman. Any woman. It's like ... chick."
"Lois," he said, "I still don't understand why us working together would be such a bad thing for you."
"For *both* of us."
Nope, it definitely wouldn't be a bad thing for him. "How?"
"You don't imagine we'd get any of the good games, do you?" she demanded. "If we're together, we'll get shunted off to the worst games every week ... or even the VFL."
"So, you don't actually object to working with me? Personally?"
She shot him a quizzical glance. "I don't know you. Until two hours ago, I'd never even heard your name. How could I object to working with you?"
"So, your *only* motivation for helping me is so I get accepted and you won't be stuck working with me?"
Did he imagine she coloured a little? "You got it," she said.
"No other reason?" Clark probed, wanting desperately to know what had caused the pretty pinkness to flower in her lovely cheeks.
Lois cleared her throat. "OK," she conceded. "I'm at a bit of a loose end right now."
"Why?"
"You're on exchange?"
"Yes."
"So one of us has gone to your paper in Metropolis."
"Who?"
"Dan Scardino." She said the name with a heavy sigh that sliced disillusionment through Clark's heart.
"I guess you miss him?" Clark said.
Lois shrugged, her face cloaked with sadness. "We hung out," she said. "Yeah, I'm going to miss him."
Clark's opinion of the man plummeted. How could anyone leave Lois and make her look so bereft?
Ahead of them loomed a large bridge. "This is the Westgate Bridge," Lois said. "In a moment, we'll be going over the Yarra River."
The view from the top of the bridge was spectacular. To his right lay a large body of water. To his left the tall buildings of the city stretched along the horizon. It seemed smaller and lower than Metropolis, but Clark wasn't sure it would be prudent to mention that. Once down the far side of the bridge, Lois left the freeway, and soon they had reached the innards of the city. It was bustling and busy. Streetcars ran along the tracks in the middle of the streets. To a stranger's eye, it looked chaotic, but Lois was unperturbed. She pulled into a car park and gestured for him to get out.
"Leave your bags in the Jeep," she said as she got out of the car. "I'll drop you home later."
"OK, thanks."
"Oh, Clark?" Was that the first time she'd addressed him by name?
"Yes, Lois?"
"Do you have any money? Australian money?"
"A little. I exchanged for some in Sydney."
Lois opened her purse and offered him a garish orange note. "You'll need this for drinks tonight."
Clark hesitated, torn. He really didn't want to take her money, but he didn't know how far his Australian dollars would stretch. Or when he could get to a bank. Or how usable his credit card would be. He took the note she offered with some misgivings. "Thanks," he said. "I'll pay you back as soon as I can."
She shrugged. "No worries."
He followed her to the elevator, standing back to let her enter first. "Lois?" Clark said.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for all your help."
She grinned. "Thanks for stepping in with the Eagles supporters."
She wasn't too annoyed at his interference, Clark thought with relief. "You didn't really need my help, did you?"
"No," Lois said. "But it was nice of you to do it."
||_||
Author's Notes - This story is a crossover of sorts. Instead of placing Lois and Clark into another show, I've put them into some real life events that happened in the months July-September 1996.
As you've realised, this story is set in Melbourne, Australia. Rather than choking the story with explanations, I will provide a glossary to help with local words and terms.
I will also provide picture, information, and video links to add depth to this fic, to cut down on description, and to provide background information for anyone who is interested.
Some of the names used are real life people, but anyone who has direct interaction with Lois or Clark is a fictional character.
Some of the events in this story did actually happen. I have tried to accurately portray public events. Private events such as conversations etc are fictional.
Some of these events are still controversial and the people involved do not agree on what actually happened behind closed doors. There are instances where you would expect Lois Lane to find out more detail, but I have, from necessity, remained vague.
All the games and results are real.
There is a female football journalist in Melbourne called Samantha Lane. Despite having the same surname, Lois Lane is no more based on Samantha than any other female football journalist. Samantha is not known as 'Flinders'.
Australia is a diverse nation and it certainly hasn't been my intention to characterise all Australians. It could also be argued that some of the slang and attitudes were perhaps more prominent in the eighties than the nineties.
If you have any questions or if anything isn't clear, please ask in the FDK thread.
Glossary
Bagged - criticised, but not harshly.
Bloke - man.
Booze - beer.
Hoon - used specifically of young men who drive recklessly, but can be generalised to include people given to other loutish behaviour.
Larrikin - a prankster, a man who doesn't take life too seriously; the trait of not taking life too seriously.
Melbourne - capital city of the state of Victoria.
Offside - to offside someone - do something that makes someone less than happy with you.
Runners - sports shoes.
Shout - paying for a round of drinks.
Subi - pronounced - Su-bee, short for Subiaco, football ground in Perth, home ground of the Eagles.
Tip - where trash is dumped. Tiprat - (insult) someone who lives or works amongst trash.
Trackies - track suit. Also 'tracky dacks', dacks being pants.
VB - Victoria Bitter - brand of beer.
VFL - Victorian Football League. In 1996 this was the second tier competition. AFL - Australian Football League, first tier competition.
WA - the state of Western Australia.
Matthew Flinders -
http://www.davidreilly.com/australian_explorers/flinders/flinders.htm Pics
Map of Australian states -
http://test.ausmeat.com.au/apl/english/images/australia_map_jp.gif The Westgate Bridge -
http://www.melbourneinphotos.com/Westgate%20Bridge%20900px.jpg Melbourne skyline from the Westgate Bridge -
http://kelvinrowley.com/USERIMAGES/AM200502.jpg Melbourne Port from the Westgate -
http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_sZwxcmAYIAw/S0cK1_Uu-ZI/AAAAAAAAAbE/TsOxnk-4Cq8/s400/westgate+bridge.jpg
