48. Side of the Face
If you study the Colonel's face closely, you can detect the faint bristling of dark hair on his cheeks and the sharp, too-thin curve of his jaw; he has forgotten to shave.
Between his eyes are small furrows, a weary, pinched look. He is tired, uneasy, overburdened.
First Lieutenant Hawkeye is little better; though she is unaware of it, her face also betrays her exhaustion. The set of her chin, her clenched jaw, the creases across her nose and cheeks from sleeping face down, her head buried in the crook of her arm—she sleeps on her eyes because she does not trust them to stay shut. She is not certain of what she might, in dreams, catch a glimpse of.
Together, the sides of their faces are the only visible equation; the two of them are sitting together, exhausted, heads bent closely together over yet another urgent file. There is little consideration, if any, for personal space between them—and indeed, now, it would make no sense at all.
Seeing the Colonel and the First Lieutenant tired and tense like that, you can imagine that they are watching over a child's first real illness—their own child, maybe. You are tired enough that the idea of the two of them together is a plausible argument.
Your own eyes are tired. Sitting here, watching them from across the room, their profiles blur together and you can almost imagine their probable, dream child's face. You think: dark hair, serious eyes, and tiny lines that will haunt the lips of their daughters and the eyes of their sons, someday, maybe, yes, if they live through all of this to one day become old.