Identity Crisis by Wabbitseason
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Author's Notes:
For those who don't know, Peter Wingfield plays the rather disreputable Simon Pemberton on the British radio soap "The Archers".

What a nice picturesque little English town, Methos thought, driving past farmlands with sheep grazing. He could go into town and freshen up with a nice pint. Then he could continue on to his real destination.

Methos stopped briefly by a farm to ask for further directions. He rolled down his window in the direction of an older woman picking some flowers. "Do you know if this road connects up with A26?"

Friendly, the older woman turned as if to answer him with a smile, and then shrieked when she saw the sight of him. Then she raced back into the farmhouse, shouting for someone.

Methos was confused. Checking his reflection in the rear view mirror, he confirmed that he had no horrific scars healing back. No embarrassing paint smears either. So what had he done wrong? He should drive off immediately, but he really wasn't certain of the way around this town.

The farmhouse door banged loudly. A broad shouldered old farmer stepped out, carrying as a large set of hedge clippers in his gloved grip. He was striding forward with a purpose that worried Methos. Hard to scare someone who had been "death on a horse", but Methos was suitably spooked.

"YOU!" The old man shouted. "I never thought I told you never to come near this place again!"

"But I was just…" Methos began.

"Get out of the car where I can see both hands, you vermin," The old farmer said.

Methos obliged, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "There must be some mistake," Methos moved to the other side of the Range Rover, edging away from the irate farmer. He didn't like the way the old man was pointing that pair of hedge clippers.

"Oh, there's no mistake, Pemberton," he snarled. "We'd know your face anywhere. I'm not surprised you had the balls to come back here after what you did."

"What did I do?" Methos asked. "I've never even been here before!"

"So you're still hiding behind that story, are you?" the old man said, "You aren't man enough to admit how much you hurt poor Debbie. I ought to slice your manhood off right now… be a good service to mankind, it would…"

"Wait, wait!" Methos said, "Let's not be hasty about this. I don't know who this Pemberton chap is, but my name is Pierson, Adam Pierson." He quickly found his wallet and passport.

"A likely story," the old man snapped, taking the wallet and passport. "You probably changed your name to avoid being brought up on charges." But he did seem to look at the passport, noticing dates and locations. Even Methos couldn't be in two places at once, although the Watchers' accounts were always a different matter. "You seem to travel a great deal."

"All over," Methos admitted, "but I spend most of my time in France and America. I don't come to England all that often."

"Who's this?" The farmer stopped at a photograph Methos kept tucked in his wallet. Methos had forgotten he still had that photo from Venice, taken by the gondolier. They looked so happy together.

Methos said, "Alexa. My wife. She passed on this past winter."

"A pretty thing," The farmer said, "My sorrow for your loss, Mr. Pierson." He added, putting down the hedge clippers to Methos' relief. "And my apologies for mistaking you for that vile son of a… He wronged my family. He wronged this entire town with his lies and his hatred."

"I had better go then," Methos said, "I can find somewhere else to stop for a drink." He didn't want to be run out of town by the rest of this backwater.

"Where are you heading?" The farmer finally asked. When Methos told him, he smiled. "Ah, now you won't be wanting the A26, there's a better way that'll take you around the town." He took Methos' proffered map and showed him a better route. "You can reach Adrianshire before dinner. They have a nice little pub that serves the best ale."

Methos got into his car and followed the instructions to the letter. He ordered several large draughts in Adrianshire just to settle down his nerves. He never returned to this idyllic little English town. As far as he was concerned, Methos had seen quite enough of Ambridge.