Disclaimer: Own nothing. Good thing I don't, too. My other story's suckiness…

A/N: Well, off the subject of my other story, this came to me the other day. We were going over the many terms of poetry, and I was like, "Oh my God, this is like profiling! Kinda…" Now, Jack is older in this- like 9 or 10, or whatever age a third grader is. A forgive me fic, like the first.


Jack was sitting the at kitchen table, doing his homework. From what Hotch had seen, he needed to use his literature book in order to do- whatever it was. But, from looking over his son's shoulder every once in a while, he thought Jack would have to write something.

It had been a good half hour since Hotch had last checked Jack's homework. He hadn't gotten much further, but Hotch knew everyone got writer's block. He didn't really think that so much when it was almost dinner-time though.

"Jack- what's taking you so long on that homework?"

He lifted his shoulders in attempt of a shrug, but instead answered, "I don't really know. We're suppose to be writing poems with certain styles or something like that. It's not really that hard, but it's sorta confusing. I've been reading them over, and- well…" He paused for a moment. "The techniques are weird. I mean, it reminds me of what you do."

Hotch raised a brow, then asked his son with as much seriousness he could muster, "Writing poetry reminds you of my job?"

Jack shook his head as he quickly said, "No. Well, kinda. I mean- well, listen to some of these terms. Repetition- a word or phrase is used more than once for emphasis; motif- a 'reoccurring element' that has a 'symbolic' meaning; free verse- a poem that usually doesn't have a set rhyme or pattern. I mean, you can't tell me that doesn't sound like what you do."

Hotch still didn't understand. "Yes, I can. Where are you getting that this has anything to do with my work?"

"Dad, think about it! Don't serial killers usually do the same thing? And aren't some of them crazy priest people? And what about the real whackos who just go around killing because they can? I mean, poetry is almost exactly like profiling!"

At that moment, Hotch wanted to smack himself for being so clueless, and Jack wanted to do the same. Wanting to come away from that fact, Hotch asked, "Dinner's almost done. Do you think you can finish up?" Jack nodded, then turned back to his paper.

After Hotch and Jack had finished their dinner of homemade pizza, jack went to go get ready for bed. In the time he was gone, Hotch looked at the poem his son had finally finished. He was surprised what he had read afterwards.

Cereal Killer

Cereal, cereal, cereal

I am a cereal killer

I eat it

Munch it

It's extremely good

I love it

For I, am a cereal killer

Sometimes, Hotch seriously thought about getting Jack some type of mental health. This was definitely one of those times.


Muahahahaha! I loved writing it, so I hoped you loved reading it! Don't you hate it when teachers you hate inspire you?