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Pie
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Alison is making pie.
Pumpkin with swirls of cheesecake, to be exact. Oftentimes she would make pies and other goodies with her family. With mom if she wanted to talk with her and have actual help, her dad if she felt like she needed a good laugh and maybe a shoulder to cry on, and Emma if she wanted to either a) try to teach her how to bake or b) felt like testing the limits of her patients.
(Which is a very small limit.)
But today, she's making pie alone.
She crushes fresh cinnamon onto the pie shell and adds melted butter on the edge. Some of the liquid sloshes out of the container and burns her hand.
"Ah, gah-why?" she hisses to herself as she shakes the hand fiercely before sucking on the burned flesh. It's not bad, but she's angry that it happened, that she could be so clumsy. She's trying to relax-and here she is burning herself and-
Her hands won't stop shaking.
She holds onto the bright marble countertop and takes deep, even breaths like mom told her to try to do. It's not working. How could it work? Her entire life has come apart at the seams. Because she is not human, not wholly, at least. Because even the human part of her is special because she is a Grimm and it turns out that has layers of meaning that she didn't know of past the kids at school joking about how she was the 'grimm reaper' or some junk. It means that she is special.
Before last week, just last week when those ridiculous, horrifying wings sprang from her back, she'd been led to believe that she was special just because her parents always said she was.
Now she knows she is a Grimm, and beyond that-her other half-a fairy. A princess of fairies, to be exact.
She begins to laugh. A chest heaving, explosive, manic sound.
She returns to cooking.
The crust is easy to finish, pressed securel into its dish with her fingers. She docks it with a fork. It's the most ridiculous fork she's ever seen. The thing is made of fine silver, the butt end rounded off with a real pearl.
Why, why can't she make the pie in her own kitchen, at her real home?
Angry, angry, angry, she slams the crust into the oven to blind bake. She should be grateful that the many cooks of Faerie let her have this private kitchenette to herself, gave her any ingredients that she asked for, offered her all the help she could possibly want. They didn't get it. Didn't get that she wanted to do it all on her own, that she wanted one-even one-of them to look at her like she was normal. Like she is a person. She shoves it down.
In goes the pumpkin puree and the eggs, mixed with the stupid pearl fork. Next comes the milk and vanilla and an endless march of spices. It smells good. She feels sick inside.
Next week is Halloween. Last week she'd only been worried about whether mom would let her go to Caleb's party instead of taking Emma trick or treating. Now she doesn't think she can stomach looking at him, bursting with the knowledge that she is an immortal fairy Grimm and that he can never know unless she's willing to deal with the consequences.
Everything is going to be okay, Ally. Someday, once you've gotten through this, you'll love exploring this new side of the world. To see magic.
Her parents finally told her the real way they'd met. Her dad, Puck, wasn't just adopted by her great-grandmother, he'd been a disgraced prince living in the woods by her house and her mother, Sabrina, had met him while trying to save said great-grandmother from a giant. They'd fought in a war between Fairy Tale Characters (Everafters, as they-her-wanted to be called) and seen countless impossible things. Her father had literally flown into her mom's first wedding to break it up because they were each other's True Love.
And how did they know that for sure?
Because he'd eaten a poisoned apple, and she'd kissed him. Because no matter how hard they tried, they were drawn together by the two worlds pressing on their backs.
The oven beeps politely and she takes the pie shell out, not bothering to let it cool before pouring the batter into it. She grabs the cheesecake mixture and blobs it on top. She takes great pleasure in using the pretty pearl on the fork to swirl it around, tossing the messy instrument into the sink with little fanfare.
Apparently, she had so much legacy behind her and no one seemed to see that the weight of it was crushing her.
"I want to go home," Alison says aloud. No one answers her. Not even the pearl fork. She looks down at the orange and white mixture. She couldn't even remember the first time she made this, all those years ago, during Halloween with her mom. Such a happy time, such a lost time.
Gingerly, she places the pie in the oven.
Her life may be in shambles, but at least she has the pie.
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AN: I had to try and write at least one of the prompts for grimmtober. This is what came up-not enough Alison fics if any at all. Also I want pumpkin pie and hot chocolate now.