A stupid Christmas thought for y’all.
(And in the spirit of the season, feel free to steal.)
I keep seeing mistletoe pop up in fanfics and fan art, and it’s finally pushed me to make a last-minute holiday post. Before we go any further, though, we need to address a widespread and deeply disrespectful misunderstanding of what mistletoe actually is.
Mistletoe is not a bush.
It is not a vine.
And it most certainly does NOT have pointed leaves and red berries. (Seriously- why are so many of yall drawing holly?)
Yes, you hang it in a doorway. Yes, people kiss under it. That part survived history. What apparently did not is the knowledge that mistletoe is not festive holiday greenery.
Mistletoe is a parasite.
It does not grow obligingly at shoulder height. It does not curl itself demurely around banisters. It grows at the very tippy-top of large trees, favoring the weakest, most irritating branches available. You cannot simply stroll into the woods and pick mistletoe.
Historically, if you wanted it? You had to shoot it out of the tree.
This was, back in the day, considered romantic.
A display of precision. Capability. The quiet promise that one could provide and hit a distant target without wasting ammunition.
It required actual skill.
(FR-shooting a specific branch out of a tree is harder than it looks. Especially in windy winter weather.)
Now.
Alastor.
There’s plenty of fan-works with him accidentally ending up under mistletoe that has been strategically placed in a hotel doorway. And that idea is just fine. Perfectly acceptable. I enjoy it.
But it misses a much better option: intentional acquisition.
As a gentleman of 1920s Louisiana, Alastor would be intimately familiar with both this tradition and the shotgun required to fulfill it. This is a show of skill and finesse—steady hand, sharp eye.
If mistletoe is required, the Radio Demon does not wait in line at a store for a sad little sprig in cellophane. Instead, he goes out, selects his target, adjusts his stance, and removes the weed “festive greenery” from the tree with a single, clean shot.
The branch falls.
A point is made.
Anyone watching learns something important about preparation and competence.
(The fact that the hotel has staff with wings? Irrelevant.)
You can spin this romantically: a perfect shot, a smug look, and the implication that this took no effort whatsoever. A chance to show off while wooing his sweetheart.
Or—for an aroace-friendly interpretation—the mistletoe’s acquisition is a bet. And our proud deer shoots the stupid plant out of a tree with one bullet. The bet is won. The mistletoe is secured. And Alastor, having proven his point beyond dispute, excuses himself from the rest of the holiday decorating on the grounds that he has already contributed something both traditional and educational. The other hotel residents can handle the glitter and greenery- he has carols to practice.
No doorways.
No surprises.
No kissing.
Just a parasite removed efficiently, a tradition observed correctly, and a gentleman who refuses to participate further now that he’s clearly won.
And frankly? Target practice with a shotgun is the only sensible way to celebrate the holidays in Hell.
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