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The dumpsters of New York City were really of sufficient size, at least for their primary use. When you added five 'reckless nutters in masks' (direct quote) on top of that primary use however, things could get snug.
Peter wheezed softly. Whether this was due to his cracked rib, a random leg pressing down on his chest or the rather close proximity of one Captain America could not be determined at this point in time. Not that it would make much of a difference, at this point in time. Peter wheezed on bravely.
Someone said something. Since the good Captain was indefinitely knocked out it probably wasn't him.
"Speak up." Clint demanded dispassionately, trying to get into a position that didn't leave his face smushed into two-week-old pasta without accidentally knocking his elbows into someone's stomach. Barnes, for one, wasn't fond of that sort of thing.
"I said, does anyone have an idea where we are?" Barnes repeated, louder the second time.
"Shhh!" someone at the bottom of the pile of hissed. Murdock, the devil with the hypersensitive hearing. He'd been here first, admittedly. Then again, they had all landed in here within rather short succession.
"Bronx." he added after a while. Clint groaned. So did Steve. Peter wheezed valiantly. Barnes probably sulked. He muttered something under his breath, most likely curses of the variety that earn a one-way ticket to hell for even knowing them.
"What about back-up?" Clint mumbled after a while that he spent trying to block out the numerous unpleasant sensation plaguing him, like the string of his bow cutting into his calf, or the moldy yoghurt on his hands.
"I don't mean to alarm you, but some of your ribs are sticking out." Murdock said. Yes, or that. Clint groaned again. Steve stirred.
"Where are we?" he muttered, rubbing his temple. To little avail, seeing as he was still wearing his helmet.
"Bronx." the other four echoed in surprising unison, considering this was the first time they were all in this situation together.
Steve grunted in reply. "Back-up?" he chanced. An ear piece crackled in response. Not Steve's - his had gotten smashed in the ...situation that led directly to their being here. Barnes answered lowly. Murdock flinched at the static.
"Back-up's on the way." Barnes concluded a moment later. Clint and Steve sighed in relief. Murdock shifted a bit. His leg was going numb. Probably due to the weight of approximately one and a half super soldiers on it.
"Thank god." Peter wheezed softly.
"So," Barnes piped up after a prolonged moment of silence. "The Bronx is quite a way from Queens." Peter groaned a non-committal affirmative.
"Or Hell's Kitchen." Murdock remained silent, but might have glared; it was difficult to tell without light.
"Or Bed-Stuy." Clint went to deliver a half-hearted smack, instantly regretting the action when it made his ribs shift and his knuckles connected with solid metal.
"Small talk, Buck? Now? Really?" Steve complained, trying to shift a wayward limb away from his windpipe.
"What? We've got time to kill. We were chasing terrorists, for example."
"Mobsters." Clint groaned.
"Same." Murdock.
"Russian?"
"Yakuza."
"Mine were Russian."
"Mine were mutated sewer alligators."
Four heads swivel around. If Peter blushed a bit under his suit, that was nobody's business. It was dark anyway.
"What the fuck, Parker." Barnes eventually says, in a perfect monotone that somehow manages to convey his utter vexation better than any modulation of tone could have.
"I'm not sure they were technically alligators. They were huge and lizard-y and kind of alligator-shaped, ya know, for mutated freak monsters. Dunno, might have been something else, technically. I'm no zoologist."
Steve heaved a theatrical and very obviously fake sigh. "Kids these days."
Barnes chuckles like this is some kind of geriatric inside joke between them. It probably is.
"I'm not Catholic enough for this." Murdock muttered solemnly, trying to zone out the edge of a vibranium shield digging into his hip. There is a burst bag of sodden cat litter next to his head, as well as a boot. He also dislocated his shoulder and broke his nose. To name but the smallest of his current inconveniences. The others haven't fared much better, but at least no one's lost a limb, as Barnes is quick to point out. Still, moving unaided remains an impossibility at present. Thus they wait with tangled limbs.
"Did they say who was coming for back-up?" Clint asked after a while. "Please tell me it isn't Stark."
"It isn't Stark." Barnes parrots, dispassionately.
"I don't believe you."
"Natasha said they were sweeping the area. Our GPS thingies got busted." More groaning. Until the image settles that this means that several Avengers are currently scouring the Bronx and rummaging through dumpsters specifically. Then the groaning becomes chuckling. There may be some concussions to attend to.
Carol finds the dumpster which by the low rumbling sound it emits. Dumpsters don't usually do that in Boston, so she reckons it might just be out of the ordinary for New York City, too. She approaches the giant metal box and floats upwards a few inches so she can open the lid more easily. The Captain, the Soldier and the Hawk wince at the sudden light, which she found more gratifying than she probably should in good conscience. Parker might have winced, too. It's not exactly easy to tell with the mask. Murdock just smiles softly, like she's an apparition come to deliver him from this dumpster hell. It certainly smells like some kind of hell in there.
"Hey Natasha," she calls to the Widow, who is just a few yards down the street, "There are some babes in this dumpster."
Barnes scowls good-naturedly at the comment. Rogers rolls his eyes fondly. Barton just looks relieved. Parker gives a quiet whimper and tried to pass it off as a cough. Murdock is still smiling - it looks a little dozy and a little too bright. She makes a mental note to have them all checked for head injuries while Natasha sends their location around. Soon the alley is filled with Avengers and some Stark-hired medical personnel. They are extricated from their trash confinement and placed on gurneys where said medical personnel at once sets to tending and mending. Natasha is juggling several devices when she steps up to Clint.
"Your kid wants to know whether you're okay."
"She's not my kid." Natasha remains unimpressed.
"She still wants to know whether you're okay."
"Oh, I don't know. My ribs are sticking out, is that bad?" he retorts with that special blend of biting sarcasm. The Widow doesn't even deign to raise an eyebrow at him.
"He'll be fine." she says into a cell phone.
"I love New York." Carol concludes gleefully.