Author's note: Frejaverse. I'm a sucker for adoption stories (they are my one true weakness) but it does upset me when people say "real" parents for biological as if the person who loves you and raises you is somehow less your parent by not sharing some amount of DNA with you. And Freja would, of course, not stand for this because she's a tough cookie and her fathers and uncles and brothers all understand too that being family is about love, not biology.

Real

"So like," one of the kids at the table asks as Freja waits for her fathers, "you're adopted right?"

"No, I was a natural birth," and she rolls her eyes. "I'm not stupid," the ten-year-old protests, "I know I was adopted."

"But like, what about your real parents?" the boy asks.

At that Freja feels her blood boil, her anger flaring up. "They are my real parents! What's wrong with you? You think you know us and you don't know anything! How can you–"

"Freja Oxenstierna," a deep voice cuts in, a thin hand falling upon her shoulder. Turning, her face still flush, the young girl finds her two fathers looking down at her with disappoint for her outburst.

That's when she starts to cry.

At the kitchen table, Peter and Olav out with friends, Freja keeps her eyes downs. She knows across the table Papa is giving her a stern but sad look, and that to her left Daddy is holding his coffee too tightly, the only sign that he's upset in any way.

"What did the boy say that disturbed you?" Daddy asks. Sniffling Freja palms the side of her nose and her cheek to get away tears.

"He asked about my »real» parents." She still won't look up but does turn her head towards Daddy.

"And why did that upset you so much?" Papa asks. At his words her eyes snap to his, shocked.

"Because that's a stupid question!" she replies indignantly. All her outburst gets is an eyebrow raise. "Because you and Daddy are my real parents, and him implying that you're anything less than that is hurtful and stupid!"

Papa sighs, leaning back in the chair, and now the young girl can see how upset he really is. Looking to Daddy she finds him watching Papa, his deep blue eyes wide and open.

"Freja," Papa whispers, "come here." Without hesitation she runs around the table to sit on his lap, strong arms pulling her close. Lips kiss her forehead. "Stay calm this time, please, and tell me why this upset you."

The tears fall silently, Freja's head tucked under Papa's as Daddy reaches out to hold one of her hands. "Because," she starts in a wheezy voice, "you and Daddy are the ones who love me and raised me and take care of me. I've never thought, 'gee, I wish there hadn't been that car accident so I can live with my »real» parents instead of Berwald and Lukas'. You two… you two…." She can't finish the sentence, no words following.

Daddy gives her hand a squeeze, sighing. "Thank you, Freja." His smile is small but genuine.

One of Papa's big hands rubs her back in small circles the way she likes. "When I look at you," he says, "or Peter or Olav, or I hear you call me Papa, or I see you point to me when someone asks where your parents are– that means the world to me Freja. You may never come to know how much joy that gives me, and I hope you never know the pain I have endured to reach this point. You are my children," and if Papa has ever come close to crying in his life, now would be it, his voice breaking just a little. He takes a deep breath. "You are my children, and I am your father. I love you so much, my little Freja Oxenstierna." One sure kiss is planted to her cheek, the ten-year-old wrapping her arms around her father's neck to hold him close.

"I think," Daddy cuts in after a long silence, "perhaps we should treat ourselves for dinner. How about we go out?" Freja nods, Papa still holding her close.

Back from dinner Daddy and Papa head straight for inside, holding hands. Olav follows them, texting someone, but Peter stops Freja before they can go inside too, gesturing for her to sit beside him on the porch swing.

Freja's feet hang in the air a little, kicking to make the seat swing back and forth. "Lukas told me what happened," Peter starts quietly.

"I don't want to talk about it Pelle." The whole thing makes the little girl feel exhausted, laying her head on her brother's shoulder. His arm, much like Papa's, comes around her protectively.

"That's ok. I just wanted to say that if you ever do want to talk, I'm here for you too." Freja says nothing and Peter takes that as his cue to keep talking. "I don't have that many memories from before Papa adopted me, but I do remember standing in the airport with Arthur and seeing him for the first time. I remember looking way, way up into that stern face of his, and how he looked down at me. I remember him bending down, his knees cracking, so that our faces were level, and then, for just a split second, he smiled at me." Peter laughs. "We found each other: I was so alone before that, with only these brothers I barely knew, and yeah Papa has the other Nordic nations but–"

"I know what you mean," Freja cuts in, looking up with her big blue eyes to look into her brother's face.

Peter smiles, kissing her nose. "You'll always be my baby sister, even when you're bigger than me and I'm still some teenager. And even when you're older than Papa and Lukas, they'll still look at you like the three-year-old you were when they got married, or the baby they adopted, or the ten-year-old who stood her ground."

"Good," Freja laughs.

Laying in bed beside Daddy Freja waits for Papa to come out of the bathroom. "You sleeping here tonight baby girl?" the Swedish nation jokes, his Norwegian counterpart snorting.

"I had a question," Freja says quietly as Papa sits on the edge of the master bed, taking off his glasses and laying out on the big mattress. "Why am I named Freja?"

Despite not being able to see well, Papa smiles at her, Daddy stroking her hair. "I once knew," Papa starts, "a beautiful woman, who died too soon. I promised to look after her daughter and love her like my own. That woman had been a lady of great love and beauty, and so I named my new daughter Freja…."