Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Aussie Rules (55/?)

"I have a story to write up," she said, her gaze meandering up to his face. "I'm hoping you will help me with it."

"Of course. What -"

"I have a deadline, but I reckon we have a few minutes to spare before getting started."

"OK."

"But only a short time," she said with an evocative look that sizzled his blood. "We're going to have to choose whether we want to talk over what happened last night, or whether we want to push that aside for a while and find other ways to make up."

Clark swallowed, not wanting her to know how much he *didn't* want to talk. Not right now. "Ah ..."

Lois grinned. "Considering how you're dressed, I like the second option."

Without waiting for his reply, she reached forward and yanked the towel from his body.


Part 55

Lois finished a final reread of her story and looked at Clark for his reaction.

He'd already finished. "That's great, Lois," he said with an encouraging smile.

She was perched on his thigh, and his hand was slowly strumming up and down her back. "You think so?" she said, not able to suppress her qualms completely. "I've never written anything like this before."

His brown eyes were steady with sincerity. "It's brilliant."

Lois smiled. "Clark, I really appreciate your help. It was a lot easier having an investigative reporter right beside me."

"You did pretty well by yourself," he said. "You nailed a group of sound techs who were trying to subvert the Brownlow Medal process, and as a sideline, you helped the police locate a wanted murderer."

"We're not sure about the murderer yet," Lois cautioned. "The man I saw in the library might not be Marcus Kendray."

"But it could be," Clark said as he kissed her cheek. "Lois Lane - I think you have a natural talent for this."

"I was incredibly lucky to overhear what I did. The tough bit was writing it up so it was easily understandable." She smiled. "You were a great help."

"There's always an element of luck in chasing down a story. Sometimes a lead goes somewhere ... sometimes it doesn't." Clark grinned. "Do I get to share the byline?"

"Do you want to?"

"No," he said, sobering. "I know you *had* to tell the police that I was the one who overheard the men in the library, but we shouldn't emphasise my involvement in this story."

"Pity," she said. "Lane and Kent - nice byline." She grinned. "Ah, well, you can share my bed instead."

"Hmmmm." Clark nuzzled into her neck and strung a line of kisses along her jaw. "That's a much better offer."

Lois put her hands on his shoulders to ease him away from where he'd burrowed into her neck. "We should actually send it," she reminded him.

"Oh ... yeah ... send it."

Lois grinned at the speed at which his mind had moved on from hidden bugs and Brownlow leaks. She sent the file to Browny.

Clark's lips were back on her neck. "I didn't see you for over twelve hours."

"It's going to be twenty-four hours on Saturday when you're stuck on the flight to Melbourne."

"Don't remind me." He continued kissing her. "I missed you."

"Was it *seeing* me you missed? Or making love with me?"

He backed away and looked into her eyes. "Lois, honey, I love being intimate with you," he said solemnly. "But even more than that, I love being with you - whatever we're doing."

She folded her hand around his jaw. "I know," she said. "I was joking with you. The truth is that I love your fervour for many reasons ... one being I get to tease you about it."

Clark smiled in response, but it waned quickly. "We probably should talk. I didn't handle it too well when I got back to my apartment and found you missing."

"I left you a note."

"I didn't see it." He grimaced. "I didn't even think of looking for a note. As soon as I realised you weren't there, I just panicked. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. I was tired, and I was really looking forward to telling you what I'd discovered. It was such a new experience for me - delving into old papers and trying to piece together what might have happened."

He brushed her hair back from her face. "You look like you enjoyed it," he said.

"I did."

"Were you researching Nigel St John?"

"Yes. I discovered that a few weeks after he left England, there was a drug bust in Cornwall near where he lived."

"Drugs?"

"Ecstasy. Imported from Europe."

"Do you have anything concrete to link St John with the operation that got busted?"

"No - other than place and timing."

Clark adjusted his glasses, and Lois knew he was trying to find a gracious way to tell her they'd need more than that.

"Do you ever get a gut feeling about something?" Lois asked.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But Perry tends to insist on hard evidence."

"Then we'll keep looking until we find hard evidence."

Clark grinned. "Lois Lane, investigative reporter," he said. "One big story a day just isn't enough for her."

She smiled and kissed him. It was interrupted by the phone ringing, and they growled together.

"Don't they know I'm here with my husband and about to bed him?" Lois said with feigned irritation. She kissed Clark's chin, rose from his lap, and picked up the phone. "Lois Lane," she said.

"G'day, Lois. It's Seb."

"Seb," Lois said, smiling at the sound of his voice. "Have you managed to drag yourself back to Sydney?"

"Yeah," he said. "And I spoke with my mate from the Drug Squad. He made a few calls, and apparently one of the three guys who went down for the ecstasy operation started talking after he'd had a year in jail. He claimed there was a fourth person involved who had suddenly disappeared. There -"

"When? When did he disappear?"

"A few weeks before they were caught."

"A few weeks? Did the police follow it up?"

"Yeah - but there was no proof that this person even existed."

"Just like in Metropolis," Lois said. "Did you get anything else? Did the police talk with the other guys?"

"Yeah - they said there wasn't a fourth guy."

"Did he give a name of the missing man?"

"John Glisten."

"John?" Lois squeaked. She looked at Clark and said, "As in Nigel St *John*?"

"I guess so," Seb said. He let out a breath. "Lois, there's something else I need to tell you."

She could sense his uneasiness. "What, Sebby Boy?" she asked quietly.

"I talked to Chris," he said. "I told her you're with Clark, so if she sees him this weekend, there won't be any problems."

"Oh," Lois said. "How did you explain about the ... the ..."

"I didn't ask about the exact circumstances that led her to thinking you were with a player, and I don't want to know. All I told her was that you're working on a big story, and that you have to protect your sources."

Opposing reactions clashed within Lois - relief that the misunderstanding with Chris had been resolved so easily and disquiet about whether Seb had guessed more than he was saying. "Thank you, Seb," she said. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

"Lois ... you know I'll help in any way I can ... but ..."

"I know. Your relationship with Chris is really important."

He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I'm not sure you could call it a relationship yet."

"It sure looks like a relationship to me," Lois declared.

"I haven't asked her to be my girl yet."

"Are you going to?" she asked cheekily.

She heard his chortle. "I'll tell you if you tell me whether you're going to marry Clark."

Lois met her husband's gaze. "Yes," she said firmly. "I'm going to marry Clark."

"Wooo-hooo!" Seb screeched. "Lois, I'm so pleased for both of you. I wish I could hug you right now. You must be so excited."

"I am, but we're not announcing anything yet - not until we see what happens with the merger and decide where we are going to live."

"Does he live near Disneyland? Can I come and visit? Can I bring Chris?"

"Seb!" Lois said, her tone sharp, but her grin wide. "We haven't even decided where we are going to live yet."

Seb laughed. "I'm totally stoked for you, Lois. And in answer to your question - yes, I'm going to ask Chris to be my girlfriend. I'm just waiting until the dust settles from the merger meeting. She might hate me if Hawthorn merge with Melbourne."

"No, she won't," Lois assured him. But the mention of the merger meeting sobered both of them.

"See you Monday," Seb said more quietly.

"Yeah. Bye, Seb. And thank you." Lois returned the phone and settled back onto Clark's lap. "Seb is serious about Chris, and one of the men who was arrested, charged, and jailed for the ecstasy operation in Cornwall later told police that there was a fourth man involved."

Clark grinned. "Good for Seb," he said. "What happened to the fourth man?"

"He disappeared a few weeks before the bust ... about the time Nigel St John left England."

"Lois ..."

"I know," she assured him. "I know that we don't have much ... and there must have been dozens of people who left that area at the time St John did."

"The police must have looked for him."

"They did, but they could find no trace. His name was John Glisten. *John*."

"That is probably one of the most common names for men," Clark said with gentle caution.

Lois removed his glasses and buried her hands deep into his hair. "I've talked enough about St John, and Brownlow leaks, and illegal bookies, and hidden bugs," she told him.

Clark smiled, his eyes already alight with anticipation. "You're tired of the life of an investigative reporter already? After one day?"

"Not at all," Lois replied. "But I can think of someone else I would rather be investigating."

Clark stood and lifted Lois, carrying her into the bedroom without ever breaking their kiss.

||_||

Lex Luthor sipped from his coffee as he read the morning edition of the Daily Planet. The front-page story was about the dolt who had thought that taking a revolver and a homemade bomb into a hospital was the best way to procure morphine.

However, it wasn't the gunman who had held Luthor's interest for nearly twenty minutes, but Superman. Or, more accurately, Mayson Drake's coverage of Superman.

She had never liked the alien, and in Luthor's opinion, she'd come perilously close to obliterating all of her credibility when she had aligned herself with the dangerously delusional Jason Trask. She had had the good sense to back away from her allegations, and since then, she'd seemed willing to toe the accepted line - that Superman was an alien but one who was here to help.

This latest story was more carefully written than some of her previous propaganda, but a reader didn't have to be particularly perceptive to discern the disapproval weaved through each paragraph.

Why the change of tone?

The Boy Scout on steroids would make a powerful ally for a reporter.

So why was she trying to publicly antagonise him?

Despite her stunt at the wedding, Drake wasn't stupid.

She had to have some level of competency - she was, after all, a highly successful reporter.

During their dates, Luthor had detected little that encouraged him to continue the liaison. Her monumental and very public faux pas at the wedding had done little other than hasten the inevitable.

Unless ...

What if Drake knew *something* about Superman - a secret he wanted kept from public knowledge?

What if he knew Drake knew?

What if the sight of her at his wedding had been the reason behind his very embarrassing collapse?

That would explain her lack of concern at her eviction. Perhaps her reasons for being there had never been about public image, but about taunting Superman with the possibility that she might announce his secret at his wedding.

Luthor smirked. As he well knew, there was little pleasure in a quick kill. There was so much more entertainment in a slow agonising death.

He reread the story.

Drake was *definitely* baiting Superman.

Two days earlier, Luthor had arranged a drugstore robbery - regular reminders of the need for prompt payment of protection money were always expedient - and Superman had arrived and ruined it. Until now, their paths had not crossed. The muscle-bound alien had mostly limited himself to rescuing those in danger from natural disasters or 'accidents' usually caused by human stupidity. If the caped alien imagined he could branch out as a vigilante, he was going to be stepping into Luthor territory.

And everyone who did that was soon in a coffin.

It was achieved with such ease that occasionally, Luthor had fantasised about defeating a foe worthy of the battle.

Superman could be such a foe.

Whatever Drake knew about him, Luthor needed to know.

There were two ways to achieve that - one infinitely more agreeable than the other.

Firstly, Drake needed to report on more Superman stories. As a woman, she wouldn't be content to keep her knowledge to herself; instead she would be compelled to hint at her secret. The more she wrote, the more opportunity there would be to uncover the precise nature of the relationship between her and the alien.

Providing opportunities for Drake to report on Superman's activities was not going to be difficult for a man with Luthor's contacts.

And, an added bonus would be the opportunity to gauge the extent of Superman's intention to become an active fighter of crime.

Gallingly, the key might be Mayson Drake.

Which was why his strategy needed the second, less agreeable, aspect. It could be advantageous to continue his association with Drake a little longer ... see whether a bottle of expensive wine and a thick coating of Luthor charm could loosen her tongue.

The coffee cup was empty and his cigar reduced to a stub when Luthor broke from his reverie.

Yes, he decided. He would start with a simple robbery and an invitation for a date.

||_||

"I think you were unduly harsh," Bill Henderson said.

"Harsh?" Mayson said, faking a smile so the cop wouldn't detect her annoyance at his impertinence in questioning her story. "There's not one thing that isn't fact."

"It reads like it was Superman's fault we waited to confront the gunman."

"It *was* because of him."

"If he hadn't been there, we would have proceeded in exactly the same way."

"Exactly," Mayson said triumphantly. "So despite all his powers, his presence didn't help at all and didn't lessen the trauma for those poor children."

"He *wanted* to go in earlier," Henderson said. "He was confident he could resolve the situation without loss of life or injury."

"Then why didn't you let him?"

"I would have," Henderson admitted. "But it wasn't my call. And we *did* get all of the children and the staff out without a single injury."

"No thanks to Superman," Mayson muttered. She looked beyond Henderson to where Clark had emerged from the elevator and was walking towards his desk. "Hi, Clark," she said.

"Mayson." No one could ever accuse Clark Kent of being rude, but he did have the ability to amply convey his feelings with one word.

"Hi, Clark," Henderson said with a smile and a glance to his watch. "Nice life - being able to start work at this time of the day."

"Hi, Bill." This time, there was warmth in Clark's greeting. "I'll still be here long after you're in bed."

"Huh," Henderson said, sounding irritable, but still smiling. "If the bad guys cooperate, and let me go home."

"It's been a quiet day so far," Mayson said, directing her comment to Clark. "After the excitement of the hospital hostages yesterday." He didn't respond - just kept walking to his desk.

"Hey, Clark?" Henderson said. "We did a job for some friends of yours this morning."

"Really?" Clark said. He stalled his progress and joined the little gathering of Mayson and the cop. "Which friends?"

Henderson chuckled. "Not friends really - but we did a job for the Victoria Police. Was that where you were? Melbourne? Is that in Victoria?"

"Yeah, it is."

"A guy called Marcus Kendray," Henderson continued. "He's been on their 'wanted list' for a couple of years - for murder."

Clark gave a small smile and made a move to turn away.

"It was the weirdest thing," Henderson continued. "The way I heard it was that a journalist was chasing up a story about surveillance equipment, and Kendray's name came up quite incidentally ... and now he's in custody."

Clark had paused to listen to Henderson, but now he continued towards his desk without comment.

Mayson looked to Henderson and caught enough of his expression to know that he had found Clark's behaviour somewhat abrupt, too.

"Gotta go," Henderson said. "I'm sure there are criminals just waiting for me to catch them."

"Thanks for the update on the hospital gunman," Mayson called. Henderson was unusually helpful for a cop, and it was to her benefit to show him a little respect in order to keep the lines of communication open.

He waved and left the bullpen.

Mayson looked back to Clark. He was already engrossed in something on his computer screen.

Why had he shown so little interest in the news from Melbourne? Had he broken up with the football reporter? Was that why the mere mention of Australia had sent him scurrying to his desk like a rabbit caught out of his burrow?

Or was it something else?

Mayson stepped up to Clark's desk and waited for him to look at her.

Eventually, he did - his eyebrows raised in question.

"Are you still going to Australia on Saturday?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it," she noted.

"I'm chasing up a story," Clark said.

"So you're still with that woman? The football reporter?"

"Yes."

Either he didn't want to talk about the football reporter, or he didn't want to talk with Mayson. The latter was probably more likely, Mayson admitted to herself. "Have a good time," she said.

"I won't be leaving for two days," Clark said, his attention already back on his monitor. "I'll probably see you around."

She turned away, annoyed that he'd managed to make his parting comment sound as if seeing her was an unfortunate consequence of working in the same newsroom.

After having returned to her desk, Mayson stared at her own monitor, but her mind was busy mulling over what had just happened.

If Clark hadn't broken up with the football reporter, there had to be another reason for his reticence to talk about the police arresting the murderer from Melbourne.

There had to be more to the story!

That *had* to be the story he was chasing.

*That's* why he hadn't wanted to discuss it.

He didn't want her to know - he didn't trust her not to steal his story.

Mayson felt a smile slowly shape her mouth. Kent was onto a story. If she watched him ... followed him, it was going to be easy to steal his story right out from under his greenhorn nose.

If nothing else, it would teach him that Mayson Drake was not like a piece of fluff that could be easily brushed off.

As she surreptitiously watched, Clark suddenly stilled, as if hit by a sudden thought. Then he shut down his computer and stood from his desk. He passed her without even looking in her direction, his hand straightening his tie.

Mayson locked her computer and stood from her desk. Clark had disappeared - he must have gone into the elevator. She headed to the stairs and dashed helter-skelter down them. When she arrived on the ground floor, she remained behind the cover of the stairwell and waited for the elevator doors to slide open.

They did.

Three people emerged - all women.

Mayson shot out from behind the stairs and looked into the elevator car. It was empty.

Where was Kent?

She ran out of the main doors and looked both ways along the street. Clark was nowhere to be seen.

Where had he gone?

||_||

"Your story reads like you've been writing this sort of stuff for years."

Lois felt a slight blush at her editor's unusually generous praise. "Ah ... thanks."

"Did Rubber help?"

She nodded. "Is that OK?"

"OK?" Browny exclaimed. "It worked like a charm. If I'd realised, I would have had you two working together when he was here." He eyed her directly. "You know I don't want to lose you, Flinders, but if you were to decide that your future is with Rubber, you've shown that you can write about stuff other than footy."

"You think I'd get a job working as a general reporter?" Lois gasped.

"Yeah, I do," Browny said with a sigh. "I'd prefer that Clark came here if you want to be together, but if you decide to leave, you'll get one of the best references I've ever written."

"Thanks, Browny."

"Did you hear they got Marcus Kendray in Metropolis?"

"Yeah, I did."

"The general editor has a bloke at the police station now - it might be another exclusive for the Herald Sun."

"Thanks for giving me a chance," Lois said. "I was afraid you'd laugh at me and tell me to stop wasting your time."

"I've been in this game too long to dismiss something just because it seems farfetched." He picked up his pencil and gestured to the door. "Go," he said. "You have a footy club to save..." He looked at her with a contemplative smile. "... and make sure you do, Flinders, because I reckon that's my only chance of keeping you here."

As Lois left his office, her thoughts returned to something she'd been tussling with since last night. Seconds later, she bumped into someone and looked up to see Chris. "Oh," Lois said. "Sorry, Chris."

Chris smiled. "Hi, Lois," she said. "Congrats on the story. Wow. Who would've thought they'd be brazen enough to put bugs in the umpires' rooms?"

"Thanks, Chris," she said.

"I'm sorry about the misunderstanding ... you know, when I thought you were with a player."

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about," Lois said quickly. "I'm sorry - I wish I could have told you the truth."

"It's OK," Chris said. "You got a great story."

"Yeah."

"Seb told me about Clark," Chris said tentatively. "Is that OK?"

Lois nodded. "He's arriving on Sunday, and he'll be at the vote meeting on Monday night."

"You must miss him," Chris said with a despondent look.

Lois chuckled and patted Chris's arm. "Like you miss Seb?" she asked.

"Yeah," Chris admitted with a wry smile. "And I've known him for less than a week, and he only lives an hour away by plane." She pushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Where did you stay on Saturday night? I hope I didn't push you out of the room."

"No, you didn't," Lois said. "There was something I had to chase up."

Chris grinned. "You seemed lost in your thoughts when you came out of Browny's office. Were you thinking about your story?"

"No," Lois said. "Something's been bothering me since last night ... but now I think I've finally got it worked out."

||_||

Mayson stared at the profile picture of Lois Lane.

After losing Kent's trail, she'd come back to her apartment. It was early evening, and she'd met all of her deadlines already. The newsroom was not the ideal place to think - nor did she want to be caught showing any interest in either Australian football or Clark's supposed love affair with Lane.

There was something going on, and Mayson was not going to rest until she knew what it was.

Something nagged relentlessly at her thoughts. Two pieces of information were floating around her mind, and she felt that if only she could connect them, she would achieve a breakthrough.

Somehow, *that* woman was in the middle of it ... but Mayson could not figure out how.

There was no inspiration to be found in staring at the woman's face. Mayson went through her Internet history and opened the story of Lane's that she had read previously. Her eyes flicked over the words.

The woman didn't even have a grasp of the English language. She continually used plural verbs when singular ones were correct.

'Brisbane are threatening.'

Mayson shook her head in disgust.

Her eyes stopped at the paragraph she had mulled over days ago. It *still* made no sense.

'Brisbane's engine room proved superior with Voss's quick hands dominating the stoppages in a display that could only have increased his chances of taking home Charlie on Brownlow night.'

She jolted forward ... taking home Charlie.

That was what the Australian in the library had said yesterday. That Voss took home Charlie.

Who was Charlie? And what was 'Brownlow night'?

She searched for 'Brownlow' and discovered that the Charles Brownlow Medal was an award in Australian football - an award informally known as Charlie.

She now knew more about Australian football than she had ever wished to know ... but it certainly didn't explain Clark's behaviour earlier that afternoon.

Out of ideas as to where to go now, Mayson clicked on the main page of the site and saw a new headline ... 'Brownlow Threatened' by Lois Lane.

Mayson read the story and was able to discern that the Brownlow winner had yet to be announced. Someone had apparently used listening devices in an attempt to attain advance information - for the purposes of laying bets on the result.

Surveillance equipment!

Henderson had said that a journalist had been working on a story about surveillance equipment - which had led - inexplicably - to the arrest in Metropolis.

Could it have been *this* story?

Written by Lois Lane? Whose boyfriend lived in Metropolis?

Mayson read the story again.

The report assumed that no one knew the result - yet the man in the library had said that Voss would win.

Was it a guess? Lane herself had mentioned Voss in the earlier report. Or had that information actually been acquired and found its way to Metropolis?

The story was passably well written and reasonably clear, but for anyone in the business, it was patently obvious that there was a gaping hole in the progression - it contained no mention of *why* the police had decided to sweep for bugs.

The report was trumpeted as an exclusive - and Mayson got the very clear impression that this was earth-shattering news.

She reclined in her chair and tried to revise what she knew.

Yesterday, in a library in Metropolis, two Australians had been talking about Charlie - also known as the Brownlow Medal.

Lois Lane had written a story about this very Brownlow Medal ... Mayson checked the date and adjusted the time zones. Lane's story had been written more than twenty-four hours *after* the discussion in the library, so the story couldn't have prompted the discussion.

Was it entirely impossible that the discussion had prompted the story?

There was one obvious link between Metropolis and Lois Lane - Clark Kent.

Could he have heard some of the discussion in the library? Or perhaps heard something after the two men had left the library? He'd lived in Australia and reported on football - he would have realised the significance of their information.

Mayson hadn't seen him in the library, but she'd been searching for Albert's bald head, not Clark's dark one. Perhaps he'd been at one of the desks at the back.

If he *had* heard that the Australian men thought they knew the result of the medal, Kent could have told Lane - who could then have run to the police and eventually got her story.

Mayson reread the story carefully, and as she did, her excitement grew.

The story wasn't Kent's - she'd read enough of his work to know he hadn't written it, but she was sure she wasn't imagining the little touches - sentence structure and style - that pointed to Kent's involvement.

So ... Kent had heard something in Metropolis - he hadn't been at the hostage situation in the hospital, so he *could* have been in or near the library. He'd informed Lane ... and she'd written the story ... with help from him.

Somehow, Lane's investigation had led to the arrest Henderson had mentioned - which seemed to add credence to the theory that the initial information had come from Metropolis.

All of that was entirely feasible.

But it didn't even begin to explain why Kent had been so unwilling to discuss it with Henderson this morning. Kent hadn't admitted to knowing anything - but Mayson was sure he did. His fingerprints were all over the story.

She hadn't seen Kent at the library, but she knew someone who noticed everything.

Mayson picked up the phone.

As she waited for her call to be answered, she clicked back to the profile picture of Lois Lane and stared at it as cusp-of-a-story anticipation began to well inside her.

There was definitely more to this - and Kent knew it. That was why he had brushed off Henderson with such elaborately feigned ignorance.

And Mayson intended to find out exactly what was going on - then she would have the choice of stealing the story - if it were good enough - or using her knowledge to drive a wedge between Kent and Lane. If she, Mayson, couldn't have Kent, she was going to make very sure that a puffed-up, sports-writing trollop from Australia wasn't going to have him either.

||_||

Clark's phone rang on his desk, and he answered it. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet."

There was a brief silence, and then he heard a muffled giggle. "Oooohhh, very official, Mr Kent."

Clark smiled. "Lois," he said. "It's great to hear your voice."

"Yours, too. I can't wait for Sunday when you'll be here."

"Yeah." Actually, he couldn't wait for very early tomorrow morning when he would put the paper to bed and - emergencies permitting - fly to Melbourne to be with his wife.

"I have some information for you."

"OK."

"You need to follow up what Seb told me," Lois said. "I'm sure John Glisten and Nigel St John are one and the same person."

||_||

A/N
'Brisbane's engine room proved superior with Voss's quick hands dominating the stoppages in a display that could only have increased his chances of taking home Charlie on Brownlow night.'

Explanation - a team's 'engine room' is the midfielders who do most of the work getting the ball forward. A 'stoppage' is when play has stopped and the ball is either bounced or thrown in from out of bounds. 'Quick hands' is an accolade for a player who can take the ball in the middle of a pack and shoot out a quick handball to a teammate.

'Taking home Charlie' is a slang way of saying 'winning the Brownlow'.