Chapter Text
Honestly? Magnus couldn't believe his luck. After a string of rather tragic strokes of bad luck, things finally seemed to be starting to turn around again. He couldn't explain why they called him, out of so many undoubtedly more qualified professionals, but Magnus wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, not in his unfortunate situation. He still had to pay the latest installment of the loan on his studies, the rent for the previous two - or three? - months, and a series of outstanding bills before he found himself in serious trouble, so this sudden hire could be the breath of fresh air he needed.
Alec Lightwood. The world champion. The unbeatable fighter.
The Shadow.
It felt like a dream… It was not that Magnus wasn't good at his job; he was prepared, competent, punctual, dedicated.
And at the moment, unemployed.
It certainly wasn't his fault that he lost his job. It had all been a huge misunderstanding - a conflict over a patient's post-surgical recovery plan, complicated by a jealous senior physician who felt Magnus had overstepped his authority.
But when shit hit the fan and the patient threatened to sue the hospital, the management wouldn't listen to Magnus’ reasons. They fired him on the spot, though at least they didn't officially file a complaint. He wasn’t guilty, he hadn't been negligent... Of course not. But it would have been his word against the other doctor's, an older, pompous, arrogant dipshit, and Magnus certainly couldn't afford a good lawyer to go to court with his head held high.
So, here he was, sitting in the subway car, watching a video he’d saved on his phone. The Shadow’s last match, which took place the week before. Well, Alec Lightwood was undoubtedly an impressive athlete, strong, skilled, handsome even, but known for his rude ways. It wasn't uncommon for him to lash out at his opponents or threaten the press.
Working with him was a nightmare, it seemed, but the fans loved him anyway. Perhaps his grouchiness was part of his charm. And Alec Lightwood had charm in spades.
And muscles too…
So many muscles, right? Magnus was now watching him with his professional eye, though.
No weird, unprofessional thoughts were popping up in his head. Yet he couldn't help himself; he was at least… appreciative of what was admiring.
Perfect physique, long, muscular arms, narrow waist, broad shoulders, perfect abdominals, and all those tattoos? God... It wasn't that easy to maintain his cool professionalism, was it?
Magnus tried and focused on the movements, then. The technique. The Shadow was fast, lethal, yet graceful. It was like his opponent could not even see him coming.
Amazing.
The match was over in no time, and Magnus sighed, lowering his cell phone.
He didn’t know much about MMA specifically, but he was no stranger to martial arts in general, having practiced both Tai Chi and Jiu-Jitsu for years. He’d have to figure out which areas of the body - shoulders, hips, knees - were most vulnerable to potential damage and injury due to the sport’s extreme demands.
The subway ride passed in a blur, and soon Magnus found himself in front of the sleek, glass building of the Idris MMA Gym.
Okay, take a deep breath, Magnus. You got this.
He rushed inside, zipping up the blue sweatshirt he’d worn over tracksuit bottoms and a simple white T-shirt - comfortable, and discreet. At the reception, he asked for Miss Isabelle Lightwood, trying to sound calm and professional.
Before the receptionist could even respond, a booming, impatient voice cut through the air.
“Hey, you! Are you the physical therapist?”
“Oh, hello? Yes, I am Magnus Bane, nice to…”
“Oh, damn, you did it! My brother’s about to go crazy, come on, follow me!”
The man, blond, tall, muscular, and sporting an impressive scowl, began walking with long, ground-eating strides. It wasn’t hard for Magnus to recognize him. The man was Jace Herondale, Alec's coach, brother, and guard dog, Magnus realized.
“All right!” Magnus gathered his small duffel bag and hurried to keep pace.
They entered a fairly large room with a full-sized ring in the center, lined with heavy bags, speed bags, and various weight racks. The air was thick with the pungent scent of sweat and the earthy smell of leather.
And there he was, The Shadow, in all his splendor and glory... well, slaughtering a poor guy with no mercy. His blows - a brutal combination of hooks and uppercuts - were so fast and violent that Magnus could hardly follow them. Yet there was a fluid whirl of movement, captivating in its undeniable elegance.
Jace stopped near the edge of the ring. “Alec... That’s enough... Can’t you see Raj can’t stand anymore?”
With one final, sickening thud of a liver shot, the man took down his opponent, who crumpled against the ropes, wheezing. Alec Lightwood didn't even look at the fallen man, instead turning to face Jace and the newcomer.
Magnus gasped, entirely unprepared for the sheer presence of the champion up close. The man was definitely more handsome in person than on a cell phone screen. He was wearing a black, sweat-soaked T-shirt and tight shorts, his hands still encased in his fight gloves. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.
And he was smirking, as if he was amused by Magnus’ presence.
When their eyes met, a spark of curiosity and something else—a sharp, almost calculating intensity—lit up his gaze.
“What’s up, Jace? Can’t you see I’m sparring?” Alec’s voice was deep, rough from exertion.
“The new physical therapist is here. Didn’t you want to see him urgently?” Jace retorted, gesturing dismissively toward Magnus.
Alec’s eyes swept over Magnus again, slower this time, moving from the neat haircut to the blue sweatshirt, before settling back on his freshly shaved face. The curiosity was replaced by a familiar look of assessment, the one Magnus had seen in all his previous patients, cataloging his strengths and skills.
“Finally,” Alec grunted, then turned back to the ring. “Raj, get up. You’re done for the day.” He then looked straight at Magnus and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “You. Come over here. Let’s see what you can do.”
Magnus swallowed dry and nodded, immediately questioning his rushed decision to accept the job.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Alec Lightwood, the current world champion and human embodiment of coiled aggression, sat on the edge of the massage table, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was still glistening with sweat, and the fierce intensity of his gaze made Magnus feel less like a professional therapist and more like a laboratory specimen under meticulous examination.
“Well?” Alec prompted, his tone short, dripping with impatience. “Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to earn whatever absurd fee Izzie is paying you?”
Magnus took a slow, calming breath. "Yes, of course. I'm Magnus, as you know. I prefer a proper intake consultation, but as you appear to be in a rush, we can start with a basic range-of-motion assessment." He kept his voice smooth, polite, and completely professional, despite the champion's biting sarcasm. "If you could remove your shirt, please."
Alec raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? You want to see the goods right away? Moving fast, aren’t we?”
Magnus met his gaze without flinching.
Ah… He was an asshole. Okay, Magnus knew how to deal with those.
"It is rather difficult to assess the tension in your lats or the mobility of your rotator cuff through cotton, Mr. Lightwood. I am sure you are not too shy to remain shirtless with your therapist."
Alec snorted, but with a fluid, dismissive motion, he pulled the damp T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside.
Magnus felt his composure waver for the briefest of seconds. He had studied anatomy for years; he was accustomed to working on bodies of all shapes and sizes, but Alec’s was something else entirely. It was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency. Long, lean muscles, perfectly defined by the effort of the workout, tapered into his impressive shoulders-to-waist ratio. And the tattoos - intricate, dark, and utterly hypnotic - only amplified the effect. Magnus focused hard on maintaining his professional facade, mentally cataloging muscle groups and potential trigger points.
He reached out. “I need to check your shoulders. May I?”
“Just do it,” Alec muttered, rolling his eyes.
Magnus ignored the attitude. He placed one hand on Alec's massive, warm shoulder, his fingers testing the density of the deltoid and trapezius muscles. He then gently manipulated the arm, guiding it through a series of internal and external rotations. Alec was rigid under his touch, his muscles resisting the movement slightly, but not because of pain—it was an automatic, defensive tension.
"You're quite tight here," Magnus noted, pressing a firm thumb into a particularly knotted spot on Alec's upper back.
Alec hissed, a sharp intake of breath. “No kidding. That’s why you’re here, genius.”
"There is no damage, though," Magnus continued, unfazed, his touch remaining firm but precise. "You carry all your impact in your shoulders. I can feel the accumulated stress. Your stance during the spar was too high, putting undue pressure on the serratus anterior."
This seemed to catch Alec's attention. He finally stopped glaring and looked at Magnus’s hands, which were now expertly kneading the tension from his upper back. "How do you know that?"
"I studied your last match," Magnus answered simply. "And I practice Tai Chi. I recognize inefficient energy transfer." He moved lower, checking the hinge of Alec’s hip flexors. As he worked, the strange tension between them intensified. It wasn't just physical proximity; it was the way Alec tracked his movements, the low-level energy thrumming between them.
After a final, deep pressure point release in Alec's neck, Magnus stepped back. “There. I treated the tension, but I recommend a proper thirty-minute massage before and after every training session. It should prevent chronic issues.”
Alec frowned, looking slightly less hostile. “Are you volunteering for the job?”
“No, I am giving you my professional opinion.”
“Fine. Is that it?”
“For now, yes. Unless you have any specific concerns?”
“No. We are done. I need to shower.”
A moment later, a burst of energy and expensive perfume announced the arrival of Isabelle Lightwood, Alec's manager and sister. She swept in, holding a clipboard. Her stiletto heels were a weird sight in a place like that, but she seemed to wear them with a natural, effortless talent.
"Oh? Magnus Bane, I presume?”
“Hello, you must be Isabelle Lightwood.”
“In the flesh… Ah, I see you've already tamed my brother. That’s impressive." The girl said, looking at the strangely relaxed stance of the athlete. She smiled at Magnus, then, her expression hardening, glared at her brother.
“Hey! Don't you dare scare this one off! It wasn't easy to find a new therapist in an hour!" Isabelle scolded, fixing her brother with a look that would wither concrete.
Alec just shrugged and stood up, majestic and a little intimidating, grabbing his shirt.
"You’re late, Izzie. Anyway, he's fine. He talks too much, but he seems competent." He shot a quick, last sarcastic look at Magnus. "See you around, 'doc."
He exited the room without another word.
Isabelle turned to Magnus, her face melting into an expression of theatrical apology. “I am so, so sorry about my brother. He is utterly insufferable and grumpy. The last five docs have literally quit after ten minutes… but you finished your session, I am impressed… but I sincerely hope he wasn't too rude to you.”
Magnus smiled, professional and utterly charming. “Not at all, Miss Lightwood. He’s a professional athlete under immense pressure. It’s understandable if he gets a little snappy sometimes, isn’t it? And frankly, my job is to help his body, not analyze his manners.”
Isabelle sighed in relief. “Oh, thank the Angel. You’re a saint. I can tell this is going to work out. Can I call you again, in case your services are needed?”
“Please do, Miss Lightwood. I look forward to it.” Magnus watched her bright, enthusiastic face before he turned to leave; the image of Alec’s tattooed back and tightly coiled muscles burned into his mind.
He went home, the strange, charged energy of his session fading into familiar anxiety. Piled neatly on his small coffee table were the day’s mail: payment orders he couldn't afford to cover, and worse, an official eviction notice.
The professionalism drained away, leaving him facing the harsh reality. He needed this job. He needed Alec Lightwood to call him back. He couldn't afford to be rude, or quit, or even take offense. Alec Lightwood's demands, whatever they might be, were now the difference between keeping his apartment and being homeless.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Two days before the next big fight - that had the entire MMA world watching - Alec hurt his shoulder. Not a tear, but a deep, jarring contusion sustained during an overly aggressive takedown drill. Isabelle, stressed and worried, immediately called Magnus.
Magnus arrived at the Idris Gym feeling much calmer this time. More in control. The dire eviction notice had cemented his necessity, so he was nothing but determined to do a good job. He had to be flawless, professional, and utterly indispensable. If he did well, he could become a steady presence on the team, maybe even get a contract out of it.
That would solve all his problems. Well, not right away; he was deeply in debt, but if he kept up the trend, juggling private clients by word of mouth, he'd soon be begging for a place to sleep at Catarina's, and crashing on her sofa was the last thing he wanted to do.
Magnus was 27 years old, for God's sake! He should be able to make ends meet, right?
This time, he found Alec in the treatment room, scowling and flexing his arm uselessly. Magnus greeted him and started meticulously palpating the bruised area, his touch firm and knowledgeable, quickly locating the deep bone bruise near the head of the humerus.
It wasn’t that bad, but Magnus could sense the athlete's complete physical exhaustion. Alec Lightwood spared no effort, but in the long run, this recklessness could backfire.
“It’s bad bruising, Mr. Lightwood, nothing serious. But you risk seriously aggravating it if you don't back off the heavy training,” Magnus advised, applying a cool compress and a tight athletic wrap. “I suggest you take tomorrow for rest, focusing on light cardio, and I don’t know… some meditation? Have you ever tried yoga?”
Alec snatched his arm back as if burned. “Rest? Yoga? Are you insane?” He sprang off the table, his eyes blazing with a sudden, disproportionate fury. “You know nothing about me, doc. If I want to keep this title, if I want to keep my edge, I cannot rest. Or waste my time… meditating. I keep my routine, I keep my focus, and I certainly don't listen to some… yoga fanatic who wants me to take a nap!”
Magnus felt a familiar sting of humiliation, but held his ground. “I understand the pressure, Mr. Lightwood, but pushing a compromised body is how titles are lost, not kept.”
Alec just scoffed and stalked toward the locker room, nearly colliding with Jace, who was talking to a much younger athlete, Simon, the gym's unofficial mascot. Simon, looking slightly overwhelmed by the proximity to the champion, mumbled a quick apology.
Magnus was speechless for a couple of seconds before he decided to follow him. He wasn't done and wouldn't let Alec Lightwood insult him for no reason.
When he was close enough to them, Magnus caught snippets of the conversation between the brothers.
“Hey… The date is set, right? Is he coming or is he throwing another tantrum?” Alec ground out, still visibly crossed by the short exchange with Magnus.
“Relax, Alec. He’s confirmed for tomorrow night, same time, your place, as always,” Jace replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Now go take a shower and try to relax… God, you do need to get laid… Not just to get a lucky hookup for your match, but because you have been even more insufferable than usual.”
“Fuck off, Jace…”
Magnus’s blood ran cold. So the rumors weren’t baseless. So it was true, The Shadow would engage in pre-fight casual hook-ups for "good luck”. The casual, transactional nature of it - using another person for some superstitious boost - left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He packed his bag quickly, trying to ignore the surge of judgment. Alec Lightwood was professional in the ring and a demanding jerk outside of it, and now, apparently, a superstitious asshole as well.
Alec noticed Magnus’s sudden rush. “Leaving already? Did I hurt your delicate feelings, doc?”
“My feelings are irrelevant to my work, Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus said, pulling on his jacket. “But I don’t believe I need to be here if you are going to ignore me. I will leave you to your… pre-fight plans.”
The subtle emphasis on the last word carried all the judgment he couldn't vocalize.
“You better watch your tone, Magnus,” Alec warned, his voice low and dangerous.
“Have a good match, Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus returned, offering a crisp, insincere smile before rushing out the door, feeling annoyed, mortified, and strangely disappointed.
Moments later, Isabelle walked into the shower room, glaring daggers at Alec, who was slowly undressing.
“Izzie, what the hell? Can I have some privacy?”
"Alec! I talked with Jace. You were completely out of line with Mr. Bane. He's the best physio we've had in months, and you treat him like dirt. Why are you always like this?" Isabelle demanded, pointing a finger at his chest.
Alec rubbed his tired eyes. “Look, I am okay. It was just a bruise, and you didn't need to call him. He, instead, needs to learn his place. He was here for my body, not to question my choices or my lifestyle. Besides, it doesn’t matter. The match is in two days. I just need to keep my focus. And my routine.”
"The routine," Isabelle repeated, rolling her eyes. "The stupid, pathetic, superstitious ritual. One day, you'll rely on skill, not some poor guy you pay to spend the night with you."
Alec didn't reply, just rolled his eyes before walking into a shower stall.
Isabelle grunted in exasperation and walked away, wanting to find Jace and complain about their brother before her murderous instincts could take over.
Jace, showing the patience of a saint, listened to her rambling, his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face. He didn't care about Alec's routine, as long as he used protection and kept winning.
In the corner, Simon was working with Andrew, another fighter and Alec’s frequent sparring partner. Andrew looked over at the two siblings and muttered to Simon, loud enough for Izzie to hear, "I know Alec needs his lucky charm to face the match. But I think the new doc made an impression on him. I saw sparks between them, didn't you?"
Simon shrugged. “Don't know… Alec is just too scary to be around. Poor man, I can't imagine how hard it is to have to work for The Shadow…”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The following evening, Alec Lightwood was in his lavish Manhattan penthouse, pacing a tight circle around his living room. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM. His date stood him up. Again.
The asshole.
He ran a hand roughly over his face. He had called Jace, who was scrambling to find a last-minute replacement, but the entire network of willing participants was either unavailable or too far away. Sure, he could resort to paying some professional for sex, but finding a discreet and reliable sex worker in such a short time wasn't easy. Gossip about Alec's libertine habits was already out of control.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw at his champion's facade. He felt twitchy, off-center. His ritual was broken. His luck was shattered.
He stopped pacing in front of the sleek, black window overlooking the city lights. He couldn't stop thinking of the last person who had touched him with professional confidence and made him feel slightly better despite his own terrible attitude: Magnus Bane.
Alec snatched his phone. He needed his nerves calmed, his muscles relaxed, and his mind cleared. Magnus was precise, professional, and oddly soothing despite Alec's best efforts to be awful.
He dialed the number Isabelle had given him. Magnus answered on the third ring.
“Hello?” Magnus's voice was tired, but polite.
"It's Alec Lightwood.”
“Oh, Mr. Lightwood? Hello?”
“Look, I need you here. Now," Alec commanded, his tone brusque and demanding.
Magnus frowned, “At the gym? Isn’t it too late to...”
“No, not at the gym. At my place.”
Magnus glanced around his cramped, precarious apartment. He thought of the eviction notice and some easy extra money. But then he thought about what an asshole the man was.
"Mr. Lightwood, I am off-hours. And as I said, it’s late.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Ah… Is this an emergency?"
Alec assumed Magnus knew exactly what he was asking for, but was using medical pretense to save face. Fine, Alec thought, if he needs an excuse, I’ll give him one.
"Sort of… My shoulder is killing me. And my back is tight. I need you to sub in tonight. You see, the match is tomorrow, and I can’t be like this. Uhm… I really need you here, doc,” Alec said, his voice dropping slightly, laced with a plea he rarely allowed himself to show.
Magnus felt a lurch of guilt.
I was too harsh yesterday. He's pushing his body too hard, and now he's paying for it.
He must have been in genuine pain, or it was a serious injury, Alec was too proud to admit. He knew Alec was desperate to fight the following day, so it made sense he would call Magnus as his last resort.
"Alright, Mr. Lightwood. Send me the address. I'll be there as soon as I can. But… I think you understand that I need to charge double for emergency call-outs," Magnus stated, already pulling on his shirt.
"Double is fine. Triple if you need it. Just get your ass here," Alec said, hanging up abruptly, relief washing over him.
The lucky charm was back on.