Instead of Steve just hanging around in his drab outfit posing everywhere sadly and leaning against door frames, just imagine Nomad Steve going absolutely feral.
He dusts off a ripped leather jacket, snatches a backpack from somewhere, crossing his motorcycle through every city, tearing up old HYDRA places and other half-abandoned hideouts of bad guys, searching for anything that could help him in his quest for revenge and to get back all the people they lost, any tech or file or person. He drags the stuff back, dumping it in front of Rocket and asking him every time, “Will this help?”
Even when it doesn’t, he gives zero fucks, going at it again with outgrown hair, many days’ worth of stubble on his chin and a feral look in his eyes that sends a chill into even the bravest of hearts, old pictures of his family tucked safely in his pocket, dog tags dangling around his neck and touching his heart, a knife strapped against his thigh, carrying a notebook with receipts, pictures, plans, some ripped out, some added.
He’s out with dawn and sometimes doesn’t return for days, or even weeks, chasing lead after lead, getting into fights regularly but his senses are spinning out of control and he’s aware of his every heartbeat and his surroundings and no one can take him down. He has an entire room in his scrappy little apartment dedicated to pictures nailed to the wall and red yarn strung up from thumbtack to thumbtack, trying to find connections and one just doesn’t add up, that’s how he arrives at a warehouse and takes out an old van, driving it back to HQ and activating a system that brings out a long lost face.
Finally, there is hope.