This is an all-out Face chapter. There is no section where the rest of the team comes in. If you are a Face-fan, you're welcome.
There's a bunch of things a man can say to himself to make the doubts in his own mind fill with hope. That extra belief that helps him endure a mission, or in this case, a rescue. At this point, he only dreamed for someone, preferably someone he could trust, to help him. Even after being pressured that no one is coming.
He refused to be broken.
The icy concrete made the abused body cringe inwardly. Its frigid touch was almost as addictive as a cigar. It may not have been an angel's grasp, but it was as sure as hell as close as he could get. He shivered against it, but still found the time to thank it for its numbing abilities. His mind chose then to drift off into a sea of thoughts. Even as hard as he tried he couldn't catch onto any of them. They moved to fast for him to even get a grasp at what he was even trying to think. His head was spinning. Like waves they crashed with a thundering force that throbbed in its after effect. He let out a light groan as he reached his hand up to silence them. The pain didn't end with incoherent thoughts that made him think of a babbling fool, or Murdock, no it moved like a plague down his body. Radiating from the smallest bruise on his ankle, to the deepest wound on his torso. The clothing that he was so fond of ripped to shreds like he was mauled by the most aggressive of beasts. His suit jacket was no more, and he was left with torn sheets of the late undershirt; held together by insignificant threads. His naked back exposed to the cold air.
Templeton opened his weary eyes. He had to blink away the sleep that tugged on them. He might have been the most rational of the A-Team. He was clearly the most down to Earth. At least, that's what he thought of himself. When he thought of Murdock, all he could think of was a wild man, running around this world like he ruled it, like it understood him. The hard truth was the world was appalled by him. All they see is a man, twisted by a war within him that he has to act childish. A puppet to his own self consciousness. B.A would walk amongst it like he was its king, like he was invincible. And yet that couldn't stop a speeding bullet, even with those glaring eyes of his. No matter how hard he tried, he still wasn't superman. Hannibal, well, Hannibal had the jazz. Now don't get Face wrong, he understood it. He swore that in the right situation he'd bet his life on it, but other times he knew it would be the death of him, of them all. But Hannibal never seems to grasp that concept; he looks for the adventure and that overwhelming rush of adrenaline that the A-Team knew to well. It made him great as a leader, horrible as a person to rely on when they needed someone to talk to. But that was Face, the needy orphan, the despicable conman. The womanizer.
Then again, none of them were innocent.
He lowered his hand to his chest as it slowly moved up and down with his restricted breathing. He wheezed as he exhaled. Under the shreds of clothing he could feel the pulsing skin. How wonderful it was to know he'd survive to see Decker once again. His heart pounded with the thought as his breathing picked up. 'Careful Bucko, not enough oxygen in you for your blood as it is...' He let out a long painful wheeze as he rolled his body onto its side. Throwing his arm out Face put the pressure of his body onto his arm and succeeded in lifting his torso off of the concrete. His breath sped as he begun using his stored strength. His body strained as he begun using his legs. On spur of moment, his right arm collapsed taking him aback. He gasped as he hit the floor once again, his breath knocked from him. He hissed the groan formulating in his throat as his eyes searched the room, agitation settling in. At any moment the door could open, rays of light blinding his vision as his tormentor continued his work with him. He couldn't risk it. He had to move fast.
Once again he threw his arm out, this time catching hold of the concrete wall. Digging his fingers in him pulled, roughly pulling himself upwards. He gasped as his body shuddered with pain. His nerves convulsing in discomfort. 'Nothings going to stop it, just push threw it' He cheered himself on subconsciously. His elbows shook and his knees wobbled, he could feel nausea affecting his stomach. 'I have to stop, it hurts. It hurts to bad.' By end of that thought, he looked down at his body and the victory of getting onto his feet without keeling over. Face let go of the wall and allowed the full pressure of his body to seep onto his legs. Without warning his stomach leaped to his throat and he leaned against the wall, his diaphragm crushed against his lungs as he toppled over heaving up what was originally his lunch. He coughed violently as he dug his fingers into the ground. The smell of bile clogging his nose. He coughed once more as his eyes filled with tears. The pain lessening without the effort in keeping himself standing.
Finally after regaining his composure he began to stand once again. The pressure on his legs never lessened but grew, biting his lip and tasting the iron of his blood he pushed onward. 'It's all up to you now bucko.'
'No pressure...'