This is the plot bunny (a.k.a. Rabbit of Caerbannog) I was talking about in my other story. And, I would like to point out (again) that there is no slash in any of my stories, nor will there ever be. Juuust bromance.

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING.

When Steve first got hit with the blast of light fired from a robot, he didn't think much of it. Sure, it had stung a little, but it was nothing compared to a bullet shot out of a gun. Besides, he and the rest of the Avengers were just finishing up the battle anyway.

But then, a few hours after they had cleared the streets of the robots they'd been fighting, he'd started to feel a little queasy. And hot.

He explained to the others tiredly that he was going to lie down. Tony looked at him in surprise. "Dude, you're missing shawarma?" It'd become tradition for them to eat the large meat-filled sandwiches after every battle.

Steve just nodded, suddenly too exhausted to say anything else. He dragged himself toward the elevator and, once it had reached the floor containing his room, practically threw himself onto his bed. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

-B-R-E-A-T-H- -O-F- -L-I-F-E-

"Steve!" Someone was pounding on his door.

Steve groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. "Go away," he mumbled into his pillow.

Tony ignored him. "We bought five boxes of doughnuts, but Thor's already on the third box. If you don't get your superbutt downstairs in two minutes, you'll have to make your own food." Then he left.

Steve huffed in annoyance. He was, without a doubt, the worst cook of the Avengers. The only one who even came close to his lack of kitchen skills was Natasha. When Tony had said something jokingly about women being natural cooks within earshot of her, Natasha had smiled sweetly and made him breakfast. Tony never said anything about women cooking again.

Deciding to sacrifice more sleep for the promise of a sugary breakfast, he started to raise himself out of bed. And stopped.

His clothes had grown larger overnight. His sleeves were huge and baggy, flopping down over his hands and still leaving about a foot of extra material hanging from where his fingertips ended. His shirt covered his entire body, which was actually a relief, because his pants were now pooled at his feet.

Okay. Weird.

He sat up and looked around. Everything was . . . bigger. Higher up. His legs didn't even touch the floor when he sat at the edge of the bed anymore.

Fear was starting to rise in his chest. What happened to me?

He leapt off the bed and dashed to his bathroom, wanting to get a look at himself in the mirror. He frowned. The countertop was really far away. He rolled his sleeves up, which took several minutes, preparing himself for the high jump he was about to make. When he caught sight of his hands, however, he paused. They looked smaller and thinner than he last remembered.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Focus, he told himself sternly. You're on a mission. He giggled out loud, than clapped his hands over his mouth. What is wrong with you? Ignoring his own strange reaction, he jumped up and gripped the edge of the counter. Then he tried to pull himself up, but found that he couldn't. His arms strained with effort. Nothing happened.

He wasn't super strong anymore. That thought hit him like a bolt of lightning.

He used his feet to push off of the drawer beneath him and hoist himself up onto the countertop before flopping onto his back, breathing heavily. Even that small endeavor left him tired and out of breath. So not only was he not super-strong, but apparently he was weak, too.

Once he got the proper amount of air back into his lungs, he turned his head.

A seven-year old boy with sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes was staring straight at him. He had on a huge blue shirt that reached all the way down to his ankles.

Steve's eyes went wide. So did the boy's.

He was looking in a mirror.