A drabble and a half:
Napoleon stood in the shadows, watching waiting for the target to appear.
Sitting nearby on a chair outside a cantina an old man played away on a guitar; his fingers deftly plucked away at the strings, creating a melody that could lull you to far away places in your mind.
Solo pulled his attention away from the music as the target stepped into view. He stopped in front of the old man, as the music captivated him. He too was a guitarist and admired the hands that were creating such a beautiful music; it was as if the guitar were weeping.
He suddenly realized those were young hands, and panicked as a pair of blue eyes looked up at him from beneath the grey wig.
Turning to run, he encountered Solo.
“Going somewhere?” Napoleon asked.
“I guess not,” the target replied as Kuryakin stood and handcuffed him.
“Great guitar playing.”
“Thanks,” Illya mumbled.