It was his favourite brand.
Fitting name too. Lucky Strikes for Lucky Luz. All throughout Europe, during Easy's entire campaign, in Bastogne, in the Netherlands, in Normandy, not once was George Luz hit. There was that close call with the shell in his and Lip's foxhole, but, lucky him, it was a dud. He had always managed to get his hands on a pack, even getting some extras to give to Malarkey for a Christmas treat, to share with Skip and Penkala... Skip and Penkala. He was lucky to have not gotten in their foxhole. Luz was a lucky bastard.
As he sat in the office, not absorbing any of the words the professional said, he couldn't stop thinking of all the times he'd gotten away, unscathed. He thought of all the times he'd had the chance to light up another. All the times he'd scrounged for a pack, shared one with a buddy, took one out from behind his ear. He thought of all the times he put one in his mouth, lit it up, and inhaled deep with a sigh of relief of having lived for another day. He thought of how he'd smoke for his fallen comrades, for those that were still alive, for himself, in times of stress, in peace, in happiness, in sadness.
The doctor stopped talking.
He thought my luck has just struck out.
I was watching Leave, again, and the idea of Luz having cancer from all the smokes... It struck a chord. I thought it all just fit together into an AU.