His eyes focus on the dagger. The last time he'd seen Steve Rogers with such a wound he had put it there himself. For a moment he see's it, a double-layer of vision coating reality that takes a moment of concentration to push away.

The Soldier grimaces. He doesn't have to answer -- and that aspect of choice pleases him -- he doesn't need to answer, he doesn't need to be here talking to the man cracked decades of HYDRA control with a single moment of naming. He doesn't have to but he does it anyway.

"Not long." he grunts, "A week."