His mother calls him Leland, always somewhat stiff and formal despite the slur in her voice, as if she is still the parent and he isn't holding her hair back as she vomits. He doesn't know when this became the norm.
His father calls him Son. As if it's a name and not a descriptor, and there is so much weight attached to that mantel. It always makes him feel inadequate.
Pilots call him Apollo, son of Zeus, god of the hunt and healing and now apparently of the cockpit as well. It's a lot to live up to.
Starbuck calls him Sir. Clipped and curt and condescending, like she's questioning his authority, insinuating he's incompetent. It never fails to arouse his ire.
His wife calls him Lee. With love and loyalty and forgiveness, lacking the contempt and anger he so rightfully deserves. It stings more than any accusation.
The President calls him Captain Apollo. 'It has a nice ring to it,' she says. It chafes like a collar around his throat, choking him with military duty and adherence to the rules.
The Quorum calls him Mister Adama. Mature and respected, a title of a man and not a boy. It always takes him a second to respond. Every time he subconsciously waits for his grandfather to speak first.
Only Kara calls him Lee Adama, soft and without expectation or disappointment, only acceptance. Like his name is a psalm or a benediction and the rest of it isn't worth a damn. It is the only time he feels like himself.