Hi! Some of you may know me from my OG fic of the same title on here, but if not, welcome! I've been wanting to revamp my Castlevania oneshot for awhile now and finally decided to do it. I have too many ideas swimming around in my head, so I figured having this as a collection was the best way to go. My OG oneshot for this (A Second Chance at Life) is my inspiration for this. It's not quite the sequel I'm sure some of you were hoping for, but this (in my opinion) is much better than the original.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: My only regret, my son, is that I hurt you (i'm sorry)

Vlad 'Dracula' Tepes has never been one for sentimentality.

His wife would disagree, of course. Because he's the most sentimental person she knows- she always says so, and he knows, for a certainty, that if she says so then it must be true. Because his wife is always, always right. She's never ever wrong, but Vlad also knows, without a sliver of doubt in his mind, that it didn't always used to be this way.

He's a monster, a demon, a man. He's vile, he's cruel, he's callous. He's a walking nightmare in children's stories, one who feeds and one who kills. He's a legend as old as time, an ancient being with unfathomable power that forever wanders the dark and makes the lesser quiver. He's a beast, a boor, and he's flawed. He's loved, he's sired, he's died. Above all, he's a man who tried to end the world because that same world killed his wife.

No, Vlad has never been sentimental. But he is now.

He's not sure when it happened- whether it was the passage of time that turned him soft, or if it was the resurrection of his wife that brought him back to the forgotten threads of his humanity. Either way, he's a happy man, and he's never been more thankful for whatever higher power exists that he was able to cheat death and receive this second chance.

Vlad stares at the batter he's been dragging a whisk through for the last ten minutes. It's thinner than he would like, runny even. It doesn't have the same consistency as the other cakes he has baked in the past, nor does it flow off his whisk like the slow-moving lava he would prefer. His lips curl into a frown. He's overmixed it. The batter is too wet.

Slender arms slink around his waist and a gentle kiss presses against his shoulder. "Baking again, my love?"

"Attempting," he hums, shifting his eyes to peer at Lisa over his shoulder. He sets the whisk at the edge of the bowl, allowing the batter to drip lazily off the tines. "It's not going very well."

Lisa, because she's never been shy about anything since the day that they met, dips her finger in the mix and brings it to her mouth to taste. She smiles. "Unless I have lost all sense, which I don't believe I have, I think my tongue would beg to differ."

"I stirred it too long."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Lisa assures, leaning against him. She reaches for the baking tin on the counter and moves it closer so he doesn't have to.

Vlad can feel her eyes on him as he pours the batter neatly into the awaiting tin. He scrapes the remnants from the bowl with a spoon, and allows it time to settle before popping it in the oven. "It'll take longer to bake- if it even bakes well at all."

Lisa's smile grows warm as her hand reaches to cradle his cheek. He leans into her touch, just as he always has and breathes in the calming air of her scent. He sighs. Delicately, her thumb swipes the dusting of flour smeared against his skin.

"You worry too much," she says, shaking her head. There's another streak of gray in her hair– he notices it instantly– that stands out against the blonde that shines like gold in the sun. It marks the third one this month. "It's just a cake. It doesn't matter how it bakes. I'm certain it will taste great,"

But how it bakes does matter. It matters to him, because he wants it to be perfect. He needs it to be perfect.

"It's his birthday, Lisa."

Adrian. His son. Their son. The best gift his wife had ever given him and the one he loved and cherished until the day he almost destroyed him in his descent into madness. He's turning twenty-eight this year, not a milestone by any means, but it's another year that he's alive and another year that they are able to breathe easy.

Vlad watches Lisa's eyes soften and her expression melt. There's so much love in it, so much love in her, that he could get lost in it forever. Her smile wanes, only a little, but he sees it all the same. It's that familiar touch of sadness, one that they both share and can never seem to shake, no matter how much time has passed.

Her thumb traces the length of his cheekbone and the sting of unshed tears brim her eyes. "I know."

He still hasn't forgiven himself for almost killing him. How could he? He nearly ripped him apart- his precious boy, the one he raised whose toys he used to make, whose stories he used to read, all because of a blind rage and a hollow grief that had consumed his soul and swallowed him whole. It's easy… to get lost in the spiral of his thoughts, to get lost in the depths of his mind and mull over the 'what ifs' and what could have happened if he hadn't snapped out of his rage when he did.

Often, he thinks on what would have happened had he managed to succeed. He fixates on what his son would feel like lying in his arms like a deadweight and what it would feel like to have his blood seeping through his fingers while it's still warm. Vlad fixates on what it would feel like to watch the light leave his eyes and what it would feel like to see the utter betrayal on Adrian's face– the fear– and know that he, that his hands, were the ones responsible for his death. The worst part, he thinks, is when he fixates on how it would feel to destroy the very thing his beloved Lisa loves most, and the only thing of hers he had left.

"Vlad," Lisa whispers, pulling him back to the present. "Don't go to that place. It's not your fault,"

She reminds him of this often, even though it isn't necessarily the truth. The church may have started it, the day the bishop decided to burn his wife at the stake for crimes she didn't even commit and for something he couldn't understand, but it was his decision to call for genocide and cross a line he could never come back from. He'd nearly succeeded in bringing about Wallachia's extinction and nearly succeeded in annihilating his son. All for her. All for Lisa. But it wasn't for her was it? It was for him, because he was angry, and because he was grieving. He wanted revenge and was willing to sacrifice the only other thing he loved to do it. And that, will always be his fault. That will always be why he never forgives himself.

"I miss him," he confesses, quiet. Withdrawn. Lisa squeezes his hands.

She stretches on her toes and brushes her lips against his cheek. "I do too,"

"But we can't go to him,"

She looks at him then– tender and warm– with that sad smile of hers and with her fingers mindlessly trailing over the backs of his hands, conveying everything that her words cannot. "No."

He knows why they can't go back, at least, why they can't go back for a little while anyway. They need time. Their son needs time, because he watched his mother get spat on and burn at the hands of the Catholic church. Because he was forced to kill his father after grief had turned him into a monster he didn't recognize. Because he had to witness their deaths, both of them, and he never got the chance to properly heal. It's why they left Wallachia. It's why they settled down in England, in a quaint little town called Whitby. It's why Vlad, for all intents and purposes, never returned to vampire society. Because Adrian needed closure, and he wouldn't get that if they stayed.

Vlad knows this, he does, but it doesn't make the sting of leaving him hurt less.

"Come my love," Lisa says, pulling his hand and beckoning him to follow. "Adrian may not be here, but we can still celebrate him- his birthday. So let us celebrate. Let us celebrate our son,"

He follows, because he will always follow her. In life and in death, he will follow her anywhere.

~SCAL~

Patience is a virtue.

It's a practice Vlad has learned to master over the years– he is ancient, after all– and something he picked up on rather quickly in his early years as a vampire trying to establish his own territory. It's helped him to analyze situations from different angles and prevented him from making impulsive decisions. It's helped him navigate through vampire society and what gained him allies during conflicts and setbacks that eventually put him on top. Patience is what gave him his wife and allowed him to keep up with his son.

Now, however, patience seems to be the very bane of his existence.

He's heard rumors of late, disturbing ones, from the merchants deep in the black markets of London. It's been awhile since he's ventured to them, too busy playing dead to pay the occult or its slimy fiends any mind. But Lisa wanted a specific book, an advanced medicinal text he used to carry in the library of his castle before his crusade against humanity destroyed some of his artifacts, and who was he to deny her? Vlad left for the market the very next evening and had been perusing the various stalls, when his ears caught wind of stories regarding a monster hunter with a whip and a vampire (dhampir) wielding a magic sword.

He paid it no mind the first time or the second time following. Rumors are rumors, after all. Vile little things, as he's learned, meant to hurt and make people squirm. He can only imagine the kind of talk that floated around the markets when news of his death had spread- that the most powerful vampire to ever walk the earth had been killed, and at the hands of his half-breed son no less. But then the rumors became more frequent, more specific. And he knew. He knew they were talking about his son.

Adrian was on the hunt. It shouldn't surprise him, not really, considering the love he bears for his mother and the love he seems to bear for those like her. Humans. Humanity. It seems the apple doesn't fall far in that regard- wanting to help those that can't help themselves. Lisa would be proud.

Vlad doesn't hate humanity. He's not fond of them, to be sure, but he doesn't hate them. Not like he used to. Since his resurrection, he's learned that not all mortals are bad. Some of them are kind, just like his Lisa, just like his son. The people of Whitby are kind. When he and Lisa fled Wallachia to lead a quiet life in England, Whitby welcomed them with open arms and helped them until they could stand on their own two feet. They accepted them, didn't judge. They didn't ask questions about why Vlad never came out during the day or why he never seemed to age while his wife's wrinkles became more prominent year after year. The people in Whitby have grown on him and now he understands why Lisa and Adrian protect them so.

Still, it worries him. Adrian is hunting and killing other vampires- the highest order of taboo amongst his kind. He slayed his own father to put an end to his genocide, only to paint a target on his own back.

Others of the court will be hunting him, just as he is hunting them. He knows his son is more than capable of handling himself in a fight, Vlad trained him himself and Adrian is the most formidable fighter he knows, but he still worries for his safety. Because no matter how old Adrian gets and no matter how much time passes, he's still his son- his precious little boy. He doesn't want him to get hurt. He doesn't want him to die.

It's these thoughts that keep him up during the day when he should be asleep and the thoughts that make the time spent with his wife in the evenings and the hour before sunrise nothing more than a distant memory. It is in these exhausting hours and even longer days that his tolerance wanes and his patience finally snaps.

He has to know. He has to know if his son is okay.

Vlad spies, he watches, he observes. From a distance, of course. He isn't completely stupid as to approach his son in his castle, where a Belmont and a Speaker also sleep. He remembers them well; skilled fighters, both of them, the best in their art. Brave, powerful, and equally stupid- for crossing into his keep to challenge him where he and most of his generals lurked in the peak of his crusade. They're Adrian's friends, and he dare not disturb them.

So he watches. Through the eyes of a raven, a snake, a rat. He bends nature to his will and it is through them that he learns Adrian is married, that he has children. His grandchildren.

There's three of them. A boy and two girls. They look just like him, his Adrian, and his undead heart swells, knowing his son has found peace amongst his turmoil. His son is alright. He's loved, he's sired, he's happy. That's all Vlad has ever wanted for him. It's all Lisa has ever wanted for him. She can be be proud.

Vlad finds himself checking in on his son far more often than he should.

He blames it on curiosity, that insatiable little thing that niggles at the back of his brain, and that sentimentality that tugs on the strings of his heart the older he gets. He wants to know. He wants to know his grandchildren, to learn their habits and their little quirks. He wants to know his daughter in law who, someway, somehow, managed to capture his son's heart.

Over time, Vlad learns that Adrian's wife is as brave and smart as she is beauty. He learns that his grandson is a rebellious, smug little creature with a competitive streak to boot. It has him recalling memories of Adrian at his age, when he would run circles around him in the castle, giving his poor mother a fright when he would disappear and magically appear behind her seconds later. He learns that his granddaughters are graceful and smart, that the oldest one is bold and the youngest is timid and shy.

He learns that they are gifted and that they are powerful. Just like Adrian. Just like him.

They grow with the Belmont's children. They play together, they learn together, they train together. The Speaker teaches them books, while the Belmont and Adrian teach them arms. Vlad doesn't believe he's seen his son ever look so panicked, the blasé hunter too for that matter, trying to teach their children the art of bow and blade. One of them, the Belmont boy, nearly lost an eye that very first day, to his grandson who was using him as target practice. It makes him chuckle just thinking about it.

His grandson, he learns, is an excellent swordsman. He's quick in his attacks and just as equally quick to parry. His movements are graceful, sharp. He can wield a blade in either hand, have his eyes closed and still be precise. Unlike Adrian, who was always uncertain with the aim behind his blade, the intent reflected in his grandson's eyes is always the same. His intent is to cripple. His intent is to kill.

Vlad's granddaughter, Adrian's second child, is the opposite.

What she doesn't take to in weapons, she certainly takes in books. She's an avid reader, and oftentimes his ravens will find her nestled under a tree or in the alcoves by the castle windows with a book in hand or open on her lap. She's a quick study and advances in her books far quicker than her brother and her sister. Vlad is certain that by the time she turns ten, she will have combed through the entirety of his library. Perhaps she'll even get a head-start on the tomes and journals hidden away inside the Belmont hold. Under the Speaker's careful tutelage, Vlad's certain she'll succeed.

His youngest grandchild, Adrian's third and last, is a mix.

He learns that she is as adept with her books as she is weapons. Unlike her brother who prefers the steady feel of a blade and her sister who prefers the knowledge of the arcane, she prefers the flexibility of a whip. It's a peculiar choice, because whips are a Belmont weapon and his granddaughter is most certainly not a Belmont. But that doesn't dissuade her from her course, nor the Belmont who was once the last of his line. He's all but happy to teach her his family's sacred art and Adrian supports her choice.

Vlad should be capaciously insulted, offended even. A monster hunter teaching his blood, a hybrid, to wield something similar to the very thing that has slaughtered thousands of his kind before him should repulse him. But it doesn't. He doesn't even bat an eye. Because he knows she will master it with the grace and fluidity that all Tepes' have done with their weapons before her. It's not like she'll ever inherit Vampire Killer– he's certain the Belmont will pass it down to his son, as he should– but it doesn't make the twinge of jealousy he feels at the prospect sting any less.

He wants to meet them. His daughter in law. His grandchildren. He wants to see them, to know them from more than just the eyes of the creatures he summons. He wants to know them from more than a distance and wants to love them from more than a grave. But it isn't his choice to make.

Adrian's built a home, a family, a village. It wouldn't feel right to intervene. So he leaves the decision up to Lisa, because it is their son. Her life is the one that will eventually slip. Vlad will wait a lifetime if he must, because with Adrian he has forever. With Lisa, he only has a mortal span.

"Brooding, are we?" Lisa's sweet voice washes over his ears, like he didn't just listen to her steps echo one after the other down the hall in anticipation of her arrival.

Vlad snorts, an airy little thing, and lifts his head from its perch on his hand. Crimson eyes shift, watching as Lisa steps into view. Old habits have him encircling her waist, pulling her close with a gentleness and care reserved just for her. She settles onto his lap just as she always does after she's had a particularly long day, and melts into the tender comfort of his touch.

His lips brush against the top of her head. He hums. "Not brooding. Just… thinking,"

"About?" she asks, the warmth of her breath tickling his neck.

Her head buries into that familiar spot on his shoulder, while her fingers mindlessly trail over the threads of his shirt. He always longs for nights like this- when he can sit in the comfort of his chair before the fire burning in their hearth, holding his wife in his arms and reveling in her love. It's intimate, it's warm. It's familiar, and Vlad doesn't think they do this enough.

"Adrian," he confesses softly, leaning his head atop hers. He stares into the flicker of flames.

The last time he did this, watching the flames like he is now, he was alone. Lisa was dead. Adrian was gone. His war against humanity was done. His revenge had been seized. He had no reason to fight, no reason to live.

But he does now.

His Lisa is here. She's alive. She's enveloped in the security of his arms and tucked to his chest where she belongs. He listens to the steady thump of her heart inside her chest, a sound he falls asleep to often, and breathes his relief. She is real, she is warm, and he'll be damned if he ever leaves her side again.

"How is he?" she queries innocently, and the fingers he's using to play with her hair still.

She knows. Of course she does. It shouldn't surprise him, not really. Lisa is the smartest person he knows. She's clever, she's stubborn, she's kind, and she has the biggest heart. He's taught her well. Perhaps too well. She knows all his habits and can read him like a book.

"He's happy," Vlad muses, continuing to drag his fingers through strands of her soft, golden locks.

He doesn't tell her that their son is married. He doesn't tell her that they have grandchildren– three of them– or that they are thriving in his castle. He doesn't feel the need to divulge the details. If Lisa wants to know, then she will ask and he will gladly oblige. Just is the way it has always been. Until then, he's content to keep his observations to himself.

"I'm glad," she says and he can hear the smile in her voice. Her hand rests on his chest, right above his undead heart. "I'm glad he's found peace."

"Me too," Vlad whispers, pressing another kiss to her brow. He holds her just a little tighter and envisions his son- smiling, content, and with a family of his own. His undead heart sings. "Me too."