He sees the way Marcel rakes his eyes appreciatively over her and one day, as if by reflex, he stabs his knife deep in the middle of Marcel’s Marcel, its handle vibrating like a warning. “I don’t quite like you ogling the waitresses here.”
Marcel chortles. “The waitresses? Or do you mean Caroline?”
Klaus leans forward, voice dropping as he reiterates, “I don’t quite like you ogling her the way you do my sister.”
"Hey man, look – I get it. Rebekah’s off limits." Marcel holds his hands up. "But Caroline? She’s not your sister."
The murder must be apparent in his eyes (death by skinning, or finally fulfilling all those head-shoved-into-oven fantasies he’s had for Kol over the years?) because Marcel covers Klaus’ hand with his and gives an amiable smile. “Come now, Klaus. We’ve been friends for a long time – I wouldn’t do that to you. Or to our business.”
Klaus lifts his eyebrows, not buying it.
"Look, two things I’ve picked up in my travels. One," Marcel holds a finger up, "never pet a sleeping Rottweiler. Just don’t." Marcel lets him ruminate for a moment before continuing, "And two… just apologize, Klaus."
Klaus sneers, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
"Obviously you did something wrong here. You’ve been staring. Not very subtle.” Marcel picks up his fork. “Women love apologies. Be sincere. Buy her flowers, ask her dancing. Apologize. Make it a good one. Dress it up, bend it over a table…” Marcel grins when Klaus shifts just the slightest bit. “Think about it.”