Spencer sat in the front row of the university lecture hall, for once not at all comfortable about being in such a place. He could feel everyone's eyes on him, itching the skin on the back of his neck like some tag he'd forgotten to remove from a sweater. He twiddled his thumbs to keep himself from actually scratching his neck. Was he really here doing this? What had he been thinking?

Usually he loved learning, loved being on campus—any campus—any chance that he got. In the past he'd have been one of the students seated in the rows behind, progressing on work for one of his PhDs. He had them. Three to be exact. More recently though, he'd found himself in the role of guest-lecturer, having been assigned to various college campuses by the FBI as a recruiting tool. It was because he was young and supposedly relatable to the undergraduate students, Spencer knew, not because he had any special skill in teaching others. He didn't. He was an autodidact, after all. He was proficient in teaching himself to do things, not others. Still, after having to fight so hard for admittance to the academy in the first place, he'd found it sort of flattering that in the end the FBI would send him out to represent the bureau. Him, of all people. He, who so often wound up being the one of whom other people were embarrassed, not proud. Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid.

That flattered feeling had only been part of why he'd accepted the offers to lecture though. It seemed worthwhile to Spencer to awaken the desire to do good in others, and every chance he got to turn some wandering, brilliant mind onto the law-enforcement track was a chance worth pursuing. Where would he have been, after all, if Jason Gideon had never recruited him? Spencer would have bet money that he'd be in a family way by now, or else stuck in some low-level, low-paying, underwhelming desk job to whittle away the hours and to pay the bills. No, the FBI had saved him from such a lackluster existence, and Spencer Reid was determined to pay back the favor.

His current situation was a favor. That much was for sure. It was him doing a favor for a friend he had made while guest lecturing at Virginia Tech. Now Spencer was present as less of a teacher and more of an example—a specimen, for lack of a better word—demonstrative to the topic on which Spencer's friend, Professor Neal Whitlock, was lecturing that afternoon. The slides that slashed across the PowerPoint screen contained topic-relevant phrases and colloquialisms such as 'SinGen' and 'Gen2', the topic of the last hour having been about societal relations between two said groups. Spencer was there as the token member of the latter group, Gen2: second-gendered individuals. It went without saying that it was the biggest social issue of their generation, the descendent to an era spent fighting for gay rights. Now Reid had gone and volunteered to effectively 'out' himself to an entire campus? Stupid.

Neal stood at the front of the room, concluding the lecture and beginning his introduction of his colleague. "Doctor Reid works at the FBI headquarters in Quantico, as I'm sure some of you may already know," Neal was saying. Spencer felt the itch on the back of his neck grow, several students in his near vicinity obviously turning to look more directly at him. "Doctor?" Neal asked of him from the front of the room, gesturing for Spencer to join him. "If you would?" Spencer swallowed, unfolding his legs numbly from the where he'd been seated. Despite having lectured in this very auditorium before, he felt incredibly out of place as he stepped in front of the room of students. He licked his lips, taking in the quiet crowd of eyes. Perhaps sensing Spencer's discomfort, Neal segued for him, "…For those of you who haven't attended his lectures here, Dr. Reid is a Federal Agent with the FBI in Quantico, specializing in geographical profiling. He holds PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering, and Mathematics, as well as Bachelors degrees in psychology and sociology."

Reid glanced over at his friend, compelled to volunteer, "I've also just completed the requirements for a B.A. in philosophy." His eyes darted out over the assembled body of students, "—from this university," he added, as if this extra piece of information would make the awkward looks of disbelief melt from the students' faces. It didn't. In the end, he mumbled what he always wound up mumbling in way of an explanation, "I have an IQ of 187. I'm a genius."

Neal tried to deflect attention back to the topic at hand. "Ah… Dr. Reid is here today to talk to you all about the realities of life as a second gendered person. We've gone over the topic of SinGen-Gen2 societal relations, but academic discussion can only get us so far. And so, as a personal favor to me, Dr. Reid has volunteered to field your questions today. I'll open up the floor to him so that he can make more of an introduction of himself."

Neal walked back to go and sit in a vacant chair near the auditorium door, and Spencer was left to stand alone in front of the room. Neal's reassuring look did little to promote his confidence. Giving a little wave, he cleared his throat to say, "Hi." The nervous hitch to his voice made Spencer want to wince, and he tried to straighten his posture into something a bit more confident. Why should he feel so out of sorts? He was used to this, after all. Standing in front of a bunch of befuddled, disinterested college students should have been no big deal for him. "Um, as Professor Whitmore explained, I'm Dr. Reid. I work with the FBI and I occasionally lecture here." He cleared his throat. "Ah, but today I've come in as an expert on second gendered peoples. …I am one," he tacked on hurriedly, stating what he wasn't sure was the obvious. "So…" he trailed off, not really sure where to elaborate from there. When called in for his expertise in mathematical theory, in statistical trends or in psychological analysis of psychopaths, it was easy to know his role, to know what to say to a room of people watching. When called in for what Spencer viewed as the less-impressive fact that he was second gendered, he had much less of an idea of where to begin. Indeed, he stood there feeling as if he didn't know what to say at all. He walked behind Neal's abandoned podium and folded his arms on it. "So yeah. I'll take any questions you have."

For a moment no one moved. But then a few hands appeared. Spencer nodded at one girl in the front row, who quickly asked, "What is your second gender?"

"I'm omega," Spencer answered plainly. To him, it was as commonplace as stating that he was tall, or that he had brown hair. He knew that to other people however, the title of 'omega' carried more meaning than that. He nodded at the next student with their hand raised, a young man a few rows back.

"We've been discussing the fluidity of sexual orientation and the Kinsey scale's applicability to Gen2 populations. Professor Whitmore says that it isn't applicable. What's your opinion?"

Spencer blinked, impressed by the student's forwardness. "Well I'd have to agree with him. The Kinsey scale was designed to rank fluidity of sexual orientation, but only in regards to primary gender."

"You have a primary gender," the student pointed out bluntly.

Spencer smiled. "Yes, I'm obviously a man, and I've always identified as one. If I were single-gendered, then my sexual orientation would depend on—would be defined by—what primary gender I was oriented to: males or females," he explained. "But it's different with second gendered people. Traditional labels of straight or gay don't apply because our sexual orientations aren't grouped along those lines. Rather, a Gen2 person will have an orientation defined by which secondary gender they're oriented to."

More than a few of the faces in the crowd squinted at him, and Spencer realized that perhaps his words were confusing his audience. "Simply put," he explained, "A regular woman—a SinGen woman—might like only men, only women, or maybe both. That labels her as straight, lesbian, or bisexual." Several students nodded their heads to let Spencer know they were with him on this strain of reasoning. "But conversely," he continued, "No matter their primary gender, a Gen2 who is an alpha might like only other alphas, only omegas, or maybe both. The attraction for second-gendered people is dependent solely on the secondary gender, regardless of whether the other person is male or female." He shrugged. "That's why Gen2s have so often been assumed to be bisexual. From a SinGen point of view, it is technically true."

"So…" A girl not far from Spencer's right was hesitantly positing, "You're a guy, and you're omega."

Spencer nodded. "Yes."

"So your version of 'straight' would be if you were attracted to… alphas?" she sounded unsure.

"Erm, yeah. That's right."

"But they could be a man or a woman, as long as they were alpha?"

Spencer wasn't even sure which student had blurted out this last question, but he answered anyway. "Yes. As someone who is omega, my orientation would be the equivalent of 'straight' if I was oriented to alpha men and women. I think you've got the idea right." Though he'd been willing to reveal his omega status early on, Spencer had made quite the attempt to avoid going into specific, personal details about his own sexual orientation. These students didn't need to know that much detail to further their education. Shifting his stance to try and regain control of the discussion, he said, "So that's covered. Does anyone have any other questions?" He tried to make it clear in his voice that they should move on from this focus on sexuality. Too often, it seemed, the focus seemed to wind up there. "This course has talked about issues of inequality, has it not?" he prompted. "Educational hurdles, workplace discrimination, legal movements? Any questions about any of that?"

In another moment a new student had raised their hand. "Workplace discrimination," he said. "It's prevalent amongst Gen2 people, especially towards omegas. Have you experienced that?"

Spencer frowned but nodded. "I have. It's something that popular rhetoric often claims is behind us, but unfortunately we have not come as far as people would like to think."

"How does being a secondary-gendered, omega man affect your life?"

Spencer sighed. "A lot, unfortunately." Quoting statistics, he spouted, "Ethnic, racial, and sexual minorities have been discriminated against throughout history. Gen2 minorities are no different. Alphas and Omegas, and occasionally even Betas are routinely discriminated against at higher rates than the general population. You asked about workplace discrimination? Hiring practices are a great example of that. Omega men and women are four times more likely to be rejected for positions of advancement in the field of medicine, nine times more likely to be rejected in the field of education, and an astounding fifteen times more likely in law-enforcement."

"But you work with the FBI," one student announced, as if this fact was refuting proof of such statistics. "You're omega and you're an FBI agent."

Spencer stared, not sure what to say. "Yeah," he finally uttered, feeling proud at being able to say so. "Yeah I am." What he didn't say was that the students assembled before him had no idea just how hard he'd had to fight to earn that privilege. What he did say was, "It would have been easier, if I'd been alpha."

Derek Morgan walked off the elevator at the FBI headquarters with an easy grin on his face and a steaming travel mug of coffee held comfortably in his hand. A downright luxurious three day weekend had left him feeling relaxed and at the top of his game. It didn't matter how much bullshit busy work was waiting for him today. He was sure that this week was going to be good. Maybe he'd take a long lunch and hit the office gym. His good-natured strut up to the office doors went as smoothly as usual, but it ended the moment he stepped into the bullpen.

His nostrils twitched, his senses immediately alerting him to the scent of an omega. It was muted—layered with the scents that a room full of stressed-out people and their pheromones tended to bring—but it was still most definitely there. For someone like Morgan, the trace of an omega was unmistakable, and distracting at best. Derek let his eyes track across the room, taking in who was there. The regular staff and a few other vaguely recognizable FBI agents milled about. There was a wiry, young-looking guy talking to Prentiss near the desk that was still waiting to be filled with a new coworker, and JJ could be seen through the glass of her office walls, talking animatedly with a few people.

Oh. Morgan nodded to himself. That must be it. The people with JJ were obviously civilians. He could see a crying woman, a sour-faced man, and two teenagers in there. One of them must have been the omega he was sensing. Likely one of the teenagers, if the strength of the pheromones being emitted was anything to go by. Morgan allowed himself a long, steadying draw of his coffee as he went to his desk, aware that he'd have to spend at least part of his morning ignoring the distraction of the strangers in JJ'S office. So much for an easy Monday.

From the other side of the bullpen, Prentiss acknowledged him without breaking her conversation, and Morgan nodded back. The man at Prentiss' side was even younger than he'd seemed at first glance, and Morgan assessed him as he booted up his computer. The kid was tall and (with the exception of his hair) clean-cut. He dressed older than he was, holding it all up with an astute posture that reminded Morgan somewhat of a bird. The ID clipped to his belt was bureau-issued, so Morgan figured him to be there picking Prentiss' brain on a case. …Or perhaps something even a little more friendly. They were both drinking coffee from cups that'd been purchased outside the office. Emily always bought from Starbucks, but the emblem on their paper cups wasn't from a chain shop. This detail which might have gone unnoticed by others, told the profiler that his colleague may have been entertaining a fling with a nerd. The kid was leaning towards her, gracing Prentiss with a dorkishly shy sort of grin as they spoke. Morgan swiveled back to his computer with a smirk. The kid wouldn't be the first person to spend a coffee break trying to make headway with Emily. Chuckling softly to himself, Derek began checking his most recent emails.