Work Text:
Morgana summons Merlin, sounding panicked.
Merlin goes, thinking she’s in trouble.
She grabs his arm as soon as he appears, “Oh thank the Goddess you’re here. Quick, I need you to be seventeen. Then put this on.”
“Wait, what?” Merlin nearly trips over a cord and narrowly avoids crashing into a clothes rack as Morgana pulls him along behind her. Something oddly soft but spikey is shoved into his hands. They’re out the back of one of her fashion shows, he realises. They come to a halt in a room with a lot of mirrors and a scary amount of makeup.
“My model just called, he’s stuck on the M5. Quick, quick, stop standing around gawking. Lose a few years and get your clothes off.”
“Morgana!”
“Oh, that’s a good look, can you do that down the runway?”
Merlin isn’t sure what look his face is doing so changes it to a scowl, “What the hell? No. I am not doing this, it’s ridiculous. Why do I have to do it anyway?”
Morgana has her hands on her hips, doing imperious for all she’s worth. “If you can tell me where else I can get a seventeen-year-old boy with parents around, all of whom can sign consent forms in under ten minutes; one who’s skinny enough and tall enough to fit this outfit. You do that and you’re off the hook. Otherwise stop wasting time arguing when you know you’re going to end up doing it anyway.”
“Who says I’m going to-”
“This is the centrepiece of my show. Without it I’m finished.”
A good minute filled with stony silence goes past.
“Fuck you, Morgana. Seriously.” Merlin keeps swearing even as he starts getting changed, regressing in age at the same time.
