If you follow me on tumblr, then yes, this is amnesia AU, which you've already read. But for anybody who hasn't read it and is so inclined (all two of you), I thought I'd post it now, before my little 2015-set fic was suddenly last year.

His name was Bill Adama, he answered over and over again. An exhausting parade of doctors and nurses and specialists in scrubs had asked the same questions since he'd woken up in this hospital bed an hour before. His birthday was January 12. He remembered getting on his motorcycle, but he didn't remember riding through a storm or losing control and smashing through the guardrail. He was a professor of military history at Berkeley. His mother's name was Evelyn. The year was 2010.

"You have a five-year gap," Dr. Cottle informed him briskly, while Bill was still staring at a newspaper with 2015 printed at the top. "Your memories might come back, or they might not."

Bill watched, speechless, as Cottle casually lit a cigarette.

"The best thing for you," Cottle continued, "is familiar surroundings. Go home, take up your normal routine, and hope that things fall into place."

"And what if they don't?" Bill demanded. "How am I supposed to go on with my life missing five years?"

Cottle grunted. "I'm a neurologist, not a psychic. How should I know?

"And on that note," Cottle continued, as Bill tried to formulate a protest, "you have a visitor."

She sat in the chair by his bed, her long legs crossed, her hands clasped at her knees. Something in the ease of her posture made him think that she'd sat in that chair before, while he lay there unconscious, and the knowledge sent an uneasy shiver down his spine.

"I wanted to be here when you woke up," she began. "I was here all night, but this morning I had a case in court…"

Court. The tightness in Bill's chest relaxed a fraction. Her neat black suit, Cottle's deference toward her, her presence in his hospital room…it all made sense now.

"So are you my lawyer, or are you representing the insurance company?" he prompted.

Her wry smile made him feel like he was handing in a test he already knew he'd failed. She held out her hand. "I'm Laura Roslin," she said. "I'm your wife."

"That's not possible."

This had to be a scam; maybe they were all in on it–

This woman–Laura, if he was to believe her–sighed. "I understand how confusing this must be for you," she said. "But if you let me help you, I know we can get through this…"

"How long have we known each other?" Bill interrupted.

"Four years," she answered promptly. "We've been married for nearly three."

"How did we meet?" he demanded.

She smiled, and it grated on him, like a private joke he knew was at his expense. "I was at the airport waiting for my flight to board, and I was nursing a drink and watching the news on the TV behind the bar. I made a comment to the bartender about a story about Defense spending, and you overheard and told me that it was people like me who were going to lead our nation into ruin. It turned out that we were on the same flight, and we argued all the way to Boston, and when we landed you took me to dinner. We've been together ever since."

It was a lovely story, and not one moment of it sounded familiar.

He cleared his throat. "Why was I flying to Boston?"

He pretended not to notice the smile fall away from her face. "You were offered a job as the head of the history department at Harvard."

It was the first part of his new life that sounded even remotely like him, and it hadn't happened.

"Why didn't I take it?"

She brushed a strand of red hair away from her face, and his eyes caught on a plain gold band he had no memory of placing on her finger. "You met me."

"I sold my apartment?" Bill repeated, as Laura pulled into the driveway of a little blue-shuttered house up in the hills that he was positive he'd never seen before in his life.

When the hospital had released him, and he had agreed with Cottle and Laura that the only thing to do was to try to resume his normal life, it had never occurred to him that home…wouldn't be.

Her knuckles were white on the wheel, but her voice was calm. "You found this house yourself. You called me at work and dragged me out here to see it on my lunch break because you wanted to put in an offer immediately. You said you'd found our home."

Bill avoided her eyes as he got out of the car and followed her up the steps of a wooden porch that wasn't his taste at all. He watched her unlock a door that he knew he must have stepped through a thousand times.

Inside, as Laura led him on an awkward tour of his own home, there was no doubt that he lived here. His books filled the shelves; his clothes hung in the closet; his glasses sat on the night table.

He stopped short at the foot of the bed.

"I'll stay in the guest room, of course," Laura said quickly, misinterpreting his hesitation.

Hung on the wall was a picture of the two of them, pressed close together, the ocean in the distance. The light was fading, and the wind had ruffled their hair and nice clothes, and he'd never seen himself smile so big in all his life.

"Was that our wedding?" he asked.

He tried not to see the hope flare in her green eyes. "You remember?"

He turned away. "No. I'm sorry."

But for the first time, he wished he did.