Klaus remembers with a strange sort of clarity the way Rebekah used to look at him when they were small children. Her eyes seemed to double in size and her mouth would open just slightly, curving into a hopeful smile. Out in the daylight, her blue eyes shone with adoration and innocence and happiness. "Nikky, will you play with me?"
He remembers how he would sigh, getting halfway through, "Not now, Rebekah, I'm busy," before looking at her.
She would blink, and he remembers seeing the start of her tears form in her eyes as she looked up at him. He can still see the ball clutched in her fingers, her smile turning rapidly into a frown.
"Alright," she whispered then, he then turning away. "I'll go ask Elijah to play, then."
Sometimes, when he was more irritable, he got it in his head to say, "He's busy too, Rebekah," but he never did. Klaus never wanted her to play with Elijah, didn't want his brother to steal her attention from him—didn't want Elijah to be her first option.
So Klaus would set down what it was that he was doing and take the ball from her hands. "One game," he'd say.
The smile she gave him then always confirmed that he made the right choice.
-x-
Many years later, Klaus came to the conclusion that those repeated instances of giving in to his sister led to a habit he would never be able to break.
"Can we stay in the city for a while longer?" she'd ask. "I'm having fun."
"Can we visit London and see if our old haunts are still around?"
"Do you wanna play with me, Nikky?"
The question never seemed to matter anymore. Whatever she asks for, he feels compelled to give her. (And there's no Elijah to take his place any longer.)
It's those pretty blue eyes of hers, he decides; that, and the way they seem to double in size.