1960

you were a baby cousin of john, and for the past few days he had been taking care of you, since your parents were on holiday. he hadn’t exactly agreed, but he couldn’t argue.

and the bad thing was: he didn’t know how to take care of children. he was impatient and short-tempered and dirty-minded— not exactly fit for taking care of a little girl. but he had to.

and so you, john, george, paul and ringo sat in the studio, them trying to write songs as you complained every few seconds childishly. it was either you needed to go to the toilet or you were hungry or something else and it was starting to irritate john. he wanted to make music, not babysit a two year old.

you were currently crying, as a result of john ignoring you and playing his guitar loudly. the others felt sorry but also didn’t want to get on john’s nerves.

“john, she’s crying.” george said, strumming his guitar as he looked over at you.

“i can see that.” john retorted, sighing and looking up from his guitar to look at you instead, “what is it?”