A/N: I'm a bit of a nerd on 19th century Philippines (and since I'm from the Philippines myself), I just kind of thought of this. Plus, it was inspired by the prompts given for the Trope Week for the whouffaldi ten week challenge thing. Do let me know what you think!
P.S. Noli Me Tangere, one of the cited novels, is latin and it translates to "touch me not", hence the title of this fic. :)
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all, tyrant, for thy sake?
- Sonnet 149 by William Shakespeare
"I have an idea but you're not going to like it."
"I could hypnotise—"
"Doctor, shut up. There's no time." Footsteps were fast approaching; at least five guards, three too many to overpower even for him especially in this enclosed space, advancing, and the hallway, too narrow. Get yourself captured might have once sounded like an acceptable plan if they did not know what happened to people who caused a disturbance on this voyage. Hearts, pounding; adrenaline, racing – even in the darkness, her wide eyes shone like the light of defiant stars caught in a midnight thunderstorm.
And he knew she was right.
Her hands were on his chest, the fabric of his barong sandpaper-rough to the touch; there rest a racing heart beneath each of her palms but he could feel her pulse – just as quick as his own. She spoke in a low tone. Hushed, like a secret; rushed, like she was out of breath. "Do you trust me?"
He licked his thin lips and nodded.
"Follow my lead and do as I do. Hold your breath if you have to."
The rhythm of the creaking floor boards suggested that the guards were now attempting to approach with stealth. Lines formed between his expressive brows as she neared him – and she was near enough that there was hardly any space between them.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
And the moment the door burst open, she jumped.
She was kissing him, legs wrapped around his waist, and he had no breath to hold.
(Approximately 4 Hours Earlier)
"It's boiling up here and we're wearing three layers of clothing, why?"
The baro't saya she wore was beautiful – embroidered at the corners with beads and pearls. Its long skirt that surpassed her height, even in heels (though that was no truly remarkable feat), did not cling to her form but flowed with what little wind that blew. Bright red, the skirt was. The colour she favoured, while the long-sleeved blouse it matched (adorned with lace and more intricate embroidery) was pure white. Delicate, sandpaper-rough, and light (as it was made of the same piña fabric of his barong) that revealed the plain white undershirt she wore beneath it. Around her shoulders was a wrap, just as decorated but made of a heavier material.
And it was beautiful to look at, truly; if only it were not an implacable 32C on deck.
"It's traditional," he answered. Clara could detect the hint of a smirk on those thin lips of his that said what was he was too haughty to actually say. Superior Time Lord Biology. It was infuriating.
"The whole purpose of this cruise is to revisit their culture and history in an authentic, interactive setting," he continued. "Year 2896, the millennial anniversary of the Philippine revolution; Filipinos are quite a celebratory people. They celebrate practically anything. They have a parade for roasted pigs on a skewer every 24th of June."
"Doesn't explain the clothes," she quipped, her lips pressed to a thin line. Petulant complaining, yes, but it was very hot and humid – and she was English. "How can anyone even stand the heat?"
"To the Filipinos, this is just a regular day. It's a very realistic simulation."
"Well, I'm going to pass out any minute if it gets any hotter and I can't very well appreciate anything if I melt, can I?"
"Are you going to keep complaining the whole time?"
"Unless you do something about it? Yes."
The Doctor rolled his eyes and harrumphed.
He reached for his sonic screwdriver from the pockets of his trousers. He pointed into thin air, the green light pulsing from the tip of the trusted device, and a kind breeze swept through the little crowd (all similarly dressed) that had gathered there. There was an almost universal sigh – all closed eyes and grateful little smiles – as the wind blew from the simulated sea. The air was cooler, lighter now. Clara leaned against his side.
"Much better," she sighed, smiling. That made him smile too and he gave a fond pat to her fingers that loosely clutched his arm.
"Can I keep talking about the cruise now?"
"Yes."
"Millennial anniversary, so—Of course they make a big deal out of it and Filipinos? Cultural chameleons, one of the most adaptable in your species; there's at least one in every country now and they have a very strong sense of nationalistic pride."
They walked at a leisurely pace around the deck. His gestures were lazy as he talked and she watched him prattle on. No one paid them mind as they were more mindful of their own business. There were others taking photographs of themselves with the simulated setting sun as their backdrop. There were others simply scrolling on their devices.
Though the barongs that the men wore looked more or less the same, the sayas were more a statement to behold. Others were embellished to the point that, in direct sunlight, they were sparkling like a creature in a terrible young adult novel. Others were of a simpler make like her own – though each of them just as modest as the last.
History integrated with the culture of modernity.
"What did they revolt against?" she asked.
"Colonialism. They wanted their country back. They were made the lesser people in their own homeland for 333 years under the Spanish Colonial Administration. Their skin colour and traditions, mocked; their religion, stripped and replaced; their language, banned. Very little cultural identity left after all that was taken away. They tried to fight for their freedom for years, even the British tried to take them from the Spanish once, but every other revolution was unsuccessful except for the last one."
"What was so different about the last one?"
"It started with a novel," he started and he gave her a look. A smug one, a playful one – one with a raised brow and the hint of a smirk to his lips that she could not help but reciprocate.
"Two novels, to be precise. Written by their now national hero, José Protasio Rizal Mercado Alonso y Realonda—"
"Try saying that five times fast," she muttered.
"—Or just José Rizal. Pepe, to his friends. He was even shorter than you, if you can believe that. Tiny little thing. Great hair. Had a moustache. He fancied me when he thought I was a girl."
The Doctor shrugged. He ran his free hand through his rather rapidly growing silver curls. Hers were pursing lips that tried to hold back her amusement as she dared ask, "When was that?"
"Eighth face. It was very pretty. You'd have liked that one."
If she noticed him adjusting the collar of his barong while he swallowed, she didn't show. Perhaps as a courtesy, she didn't press on that last bit. She only rolled her eyes. (Though notice him, she did.)
"I'd have paid to see that," was her only comment.
"You with Asian Casanova?" he scoffed. "I will not have fornicating companions."
Then, she could not bite it back. That was just asking for it, really.
"Jealous?" she asked, quirking a brow. A hint of colour rose to his pale face but he coughed, licked his lips, and shrugged it off.
"You were his type."
"Meaning?"
"You're a woman and you're alive; as far as I know, that was his only criteria. Had 17 lovers all across Europe, according to most scholars."
"Busy man, then," she commented. A pause was birthed between them. "So. Novels."
The Doctor came back to himself; he brought his hand up to rest lightly against the back of hers that still held onto him.
"He wrote two novels. Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo. Portrayed the Spanish friars and government as corrupt and vile in his stories, and for the most part, they really were. He went through hell and back just to get the first one published but he was a genius. Admired for his talents, he got published eventually with the help of his mentors and such but he was exiled for them. His books were banned and there was an arrest warrant on his name if he were to ever come back to the Philippines."
"And he went back, did he?"
"Of course. He loved his family, his people, and his country too much to be away from it all when it was in trouble and it generated quite a bit of buzz for rebellion, his books, and he wanted to be a part of that. The fight for freedom. But they got him. Imprisoned him. Executed him for his crimes against the crown via firing squad with his back turned to them but at the last second, he turned around. Shot straight to the heart."
The pair of them looked to the serene distance – nothing but restlessly rippling blue ocean for miles and miles – and there came a moment of silence. Out of respect or simply because the conversation demanded it, there was no definite answer.
Above them, birds flew and cawed. Around them, people oohed and ahh-ed and paid no much mind to the odd duo that was them. Neither of them took much notice. They rest and stood by the rails, the kind simulated breeze still blowing. Sweet against their skin. The Doctor simply went on to add: "His execution ignited the flame for the rebels; his books inspired the Philippine revolution of 1896. This boat, this tour is a commemoration of those books that started his legacy."
"Must've been some really good books," she quipped.
"They were. This cruise liner itself is named for one of its most beloved characters."
He looked down at her, grinning and bright blue eyes shining like he knew something that she didn't. Like he was dying to make a point and was just waiting for her to say the word that could let him drop the punch line. Clara, brows knit, waited a moment; his stare – mirthful and proud that it was – never faltered. It egged her on and she was near tempted not to fall for the bait but—
"The name being?"
"The S.S. Maria Clara."
"Why're you saying it like that—it's not as if it was named after me, is it?"
Her eyes did that thing where they went so wide, it was almost ridiculous – they dilated, they inflated, and they were looking up at him and he could count how many times he has seen that happen and could not think of when he could ever be tired of seeing it happen.
"Of course you would think that." The Doctor made a show of rolling his eyes, a faux jeer.
"Oh, shut up—" She gave him a playful shove.
"But no. Just a coincidence."
"Did you bring me here because you thought I'd want to be on a cruise that kind of has my name on it?"
"It was part of its charm, yes," he started but his tone then dropped an octave to her ear, "but no, that's not exactly why."
"Why, then?" she mimicked his lilt and turned her head just so, not quite facing him. A show of an attempt of being stealthy – like someone could be listening in to this very conversation. The thought sent shivers down her spine.
"Well." He paused (presumably for dramatic effect) and she cocked her head up to give him a look. Brows shot up, parted lips like she was holding in a breath (she was). "I was given a summons. An invitation for two."
"That's not suspicious at all, is it?" Clara grinned. He did the same. "People only ever invite you if there's trouble."
"So how could I resist?"