Missing scene from "Nag Hammadi is Where They Found the Gnostic Gospels" : This scene is a replacement for the actual scene where Lorelai finds Luke in her living room, trying to drunkenly fix her broken window.  His right hand is cut, and she does a little squeamish first aid on him involving a damp washcloth and a Barbie Band-Aid.  Cute, but could've been sooooo much better, if you ask me! 

Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls, and I am not affiliated in any way with the WB network.  I don't own any of these characters, and I'm not making any money off of this.  Hats off to Amy Sherman-Palladino and other talented folks for dreaming this up, and big kudos to our favourite actors Lauren Graham, Alexis Bledel, and Scott Patterson (among others) who make the show as great as it is.   That being said, this is MY version of the Window Repair scene from 'A Family Matter' (as the official WB website calls it) or 'Nag Hammadi is Where They Found the Gnostic Gospels' (I'm not sure where that title came from, but it sure is interesting!)….

Lorelai cringes and closes her eyes as she tries to mop up the handful of blood that Luke is dutifully holding toward her.  She remembers all the gory scraped knees and elbows that she had to nurse Rory through when she was growing up.  Those stupid roller skates had seemed like such an innocent birthday gift at the time!  Lorelai dabs aimlessly at Luke's injured hand, eyes squinched tightly shut, and hopes that she's doing a good job.

"Uh, Lorelai?"  Luke mumbles, drunkenly.  "That's my wrist."  Her eyes open a crack and sneak a peek at the washcloth's current location.  He's right.  She's at least four inches off target.

"Oh!  Sorry."  She blushes.  In fact, she feels very much as though most of the blood in her entire body is now in her head, considering the faint buzzing feeling that she had even before Luke pointed out her embarrassing nursing skills.  She hurriedly swipes the washcloth around the palm of his hand, trying really, really hard not to look directly at the jagged little wound.  Or the washcloth, for that matter, which is now covered in his blood.  Eeeeeew. 

Luke is drunk.  He knows it, and he knows that Lorelai knows it.  Even with the dulling effect of the - what was it, eight? - bottles of beer that he's consumed in the past two hours, he has to stop himself from grimacing at her ham-handed attempts at first aid.  The washcloth should be cold, not warm.  She ought to be putting firm pressure on the cut to stop the bleeding, not dabbing at it like she's doing.  He frowns.  Maybe Jess had a point.  Maybe he is a little too critical of the way other people do things.

He snaps back to reality as Lorelai drops the washcloth into his lap and clumsily applies a Barbie band-aid to his still-damp palm.  Yeah, that'll stick, he thinks before he can stop himself.  No big deal, it's not much of a cut anyway.  He figures they must be done, since the washcloth and band-aid appear to be the extent of Lorelai's first aid repertoire, so he decides to get up off the couch.

"Where do you think you're going, mister?"  He's in mid-get-up when she grasps the sleeve of his shirt and he falls back onto the couch with a frown.

"The window… I'm not done fixing it…" he mumbles.

"Oh, but I think you are!  One pint of blood per day is all that I allow my repairmen to shed on the premises, so I'm afraid you'll just have to consider yourself fired from this particular gig."  She's smiling at him, but she still looks pretty pale.

"Gimme a break!" he cries. "I am FINE!  Look, you fixed me all up" he indicates his Barbie-clad hand, "And now I can get this window fixed before we both freeze to death in this meat locker."

"No, sirree.  How about this?  You sit here and relax, and I'll get you a biiiiig glass of water and some aspirin."

"Aspirin? It really doesn't hurt that much.  I don't  think I need any –"

"The aspirin isn't for your hand, Sherlock.  I predict a very large headache in your future, and you know what they say:  'An ounce of prevention is'…" she pauses, "Um… good for a really bad headache!"  He cocks one eyebrow.  "Or something." she finishes, ducking into the kitchen.

Luke sighs, and smiles in spite of himself.  Water actually sounds pretty good right about now.  He doesn't object when she returns from the kitchen with a tumbler of water and a couple of Bayer tablets.  He tosses the pills down the hatch and gulps the back the water in four or five huge swallows.

"Efficient."  She says admiringly.  She picks the bloody washcloth off of his lap with two fingers, as if it was a dead rat, and carries it to the kitchen.  For a brief second, she considers rinsing it out and putting it in the laundry, but ends up tossing it in the trashcan instead.  Some things are worth cleaning, and other things just aren't.

In the living room, Luke is reclining back against the couch cushions, eyes shut.  He looks so…  she can't quite put her finger on it.  Sad?  Tired? Defeated?  She can feel his pain like a palpable force in the air around him, but she has no idea how to make him feel better. The microwave beeps, telling her that mugs of water she's heating up are ready for their teabags.  Peppermint is always good for a hangover.  She lets him rest on the couch while she brews the tea.  It sure ain't coffee, but what is?  If it would help him feel better, she'd drink dishwater.  She carries the cups carefully to the coffee table (sacrilege, she thinks, putting TEA on a table that is clearly intended for coffee!) and sets them down quietly.

She sits down beside Luke, propping her head on her hand.  She knows darn well that he didn't come over here to fix her stupid window.  Well, he did, but that's not the only reason.  The last time he'd broken into the house to fix something, it was her back door lock, and he'd only done it as an excuse to talk to her about his relationship with Rachel.  Lorelai knows that Luke is unsettled by Jess' outburst, and she wants to help.

 After watching him for a few minutes, Lorelai's impatience takes over.  She nudges him gently and offers the peppermint tea.  He accepts it gladly and gives her a weak, sheepish smile before taking a sip.  She can tell that he's sobering up fast, and is starting to feel the first twinges of embarrassment as he replays his actions of the past few hours.  She knows the feeling well.

"Thank you" he says quietly, looking into his mug.

"No problem" she says simply, and reaches over to squeeze his arm.  Suddenly, she sees the big crumpled patch of his flannel shirt that he'd used as a makeshift bandage for his hand before she arrived.  "Eew, gross!  Luke, your shirt!"  She makes a disgusted face and turns her head away.

"What?"  Luke looks down and sees the stain.  "Oh, yeah.  Sorry.  Uh, I was going to go look for a band-aid, but it seemed like you'd probably used them all on the window…"

"Oh, shut up and take your shirt off!"  She says, waving off his attempt to change the subject.  She stands in front of him and reaches for the buttons on his signature flannel. 

Luke squirms out of her grasp, ducking back against the couch cushions.  "Yeah, right.  I don't think so!  I saw what you did with the washcloth… and I LIKE this shirt!"  She laughs, and he grabs her wrists to hold her off.

"No way, buster.  I have a strict rule about no bloodstains on my couch!"  She is standing between his knees, leaning way over him in her attack.  He's got nowhere to go to evade her, and the two of them are soon struggling with the buttons on the front of his shirt.  "What's the big deal anyway?" she giggles, "It's not like you're naked underneath this disgusting thing!  I promise not to throw it out, okay?  I'll just soak it in the sink so you can wash it later!"  And it won't get my couch all gross, she adds mentally.

Luke gives in, partly because of her promise not to toss one of his favourite shirts, and partly because he can never say no to her for very long.  He can't stop himself from memorizing her movements as she works on the buttons of his shirt.  He's a guy, after all, and he doubts that there are very many red-blooded males in Stars Hollow who haven't entertained at least one or two ideas about the striking, raven-haired creature who is currently undressing him.  Well, taking his shirt off isn't exactly undressing him, but it's probably as close as Luke is ever going to get, and he can't help but enjoy it.  Just a little.

She takes her time with the buttons, but she tells herself it's because she doesn't want to risk damaging his shirt.  It's one of her favourites, and she's pretty sure that the stain will come out if she soaks it right away.  What is it you're supposed to soak bloodstains in?  Salt?  Ginger ale?  Baking powder?  She hopes it's salt, because she's pretty sure that she has that in the house.  Everything else on that list would require a trip to the market.  She steadfastly denies to herself that she is really enjoying taking Luke's shirt off.   It would be wrong for her to enjoy it - he's a married man, she reminds herself.  Still, she's only looking.  He's the one who took the wedding vows, she argues to her own conscience, and it still isn't clear if he's getting divorced or not.  Either way, a little innocent looking isn't going to do anyone any harm.

When the last button is undone, he sits up on the couch a little.  Lorelai is still standing directly in front of him, her feet between his workboots.  She doesn't step away, and he's not really sure why.  She just keeps looking at him, making him feel a little self-conscious.  He doesn't meet her gaze, but instead concentrates on undoing the buttons at the cuffs of his shirt and shrugging it off his shoulders.  His plan is to stand up to take it the rest of the way off, to make sure that he doesn't accidentally brush it against the couch, but there's no way that he can get up with her standing so close in front of him.

Lorelai reaches for his hand, and he looks at her questioningly.  Their eyes meet, and he knows he's in trouble.  Those eyes hold him like Kreskin's crystal, and he can't look away.  She slips the left cuff of his shirt over his hand, pulling it upward and away from his body.  When his left hand comes out of the shirt, for some reason that only it knows, it doesn't return to his lap.  No, instead it ends up somewhere that Luke is absolutely sure that he would never consciously put it.  It goes to her hip, which is level with his bicep as he sits in front of her.  It seems like a very natural movement, a very comfortable resting place for his hand, except for the fact that having his hand there somehow makes it difficult for him to breathe normally.  Her eyes never leave his, and he's powerless.

She lifts the shirt up, away from his back, and slides it neatly off of his other arm, over his injured hand.  Her eyes are brimming with something that she would never, ever say out loud.  Something that she wouldn't tell him, even that night in the church tower, when he'd come as close as he could to asking her outright.  Considering all the time he's spent over the years looking at Lorelai's beautiful blue eyes, he's amazed to learn that he's never really seen them until now.  Maybe glimpses, here and there, but she's always run away.  Now, she's letting him see… inviting him to see.

Lorelai slowly draws his flannel shirt off of his outstretched arm, but can't seem to focus on anything but the comfortable way that his left hand is resting on her right hip.  She studies his eyes, and discovers a name for the feeling that he is stirring up inside of her.  She's been calling it friendship for years, but right now she wonders if that's the right word after all.  Maybe there's another word that would describe this feeling even better.

When you care about someone, and you count on them for support, and share all of your highs and lows, that's friendship.  When you feel a twisty kind of knot in your stomach when that person goes on dates with other women, it's still friendship because you just want to make sure that your friend is happy, right?  When you feel strange and awkward about letting other men into your life, that's just because you're worried that your new man won't understand this special kind of friendship.  And when you are overwhelmed by how much you need to take care of this friend, and deeply touched by the way he takes care of you, and how you would do anything to make him happy when he's sad, that's just being a good and loyal friend. Isn't it?

But this new feeling isn't really what Lorelai would call 'friendly'.  As she looks steadily into his dark blue eyes, and feels a rush of … not-friendliness… somewhere deep inside her chest, near her stomach.  She knows this feeling isn't really new, but she doesn't recall ever feeling it this strongly before.

Luke's eyes are reading her, leaping over her barbed-wire defenses and somehow looking right into her.  His right hand leaves the sleeve of his shirt, and falls neatly to her other hip, as if there was nothing more natural in the world.  His eyes must be telling her that it's okay, because, inexplicably, she doesn't pull away.

A million snappy, zinging remarks ought to be flying through Lorelai's head right now, but instead all she can think about is the weight of his hands on her hips.  She's never considered the hip to be much of an erogenous zone.  She's never given her hips much thought, except to curse them occasionally when a dress looks better on the stick-mannequin in the store window than it does on her curvy figure.  Today, she realizes what a lot of nerve endings she's been neglecting in her hips, all these years.  She drops his shirt onto the coffee table behind her, trying to remember why she was holding it at all.  Her eyes have never left his, and she sees the sadness and longing that must have been there all along, but were somehow invisible to her until now.

Lorelai finds that her hands are on Luke's shoulders, and then, less innocently, they smooth their way over his cotton t-shirt to the bare skin at the back of his neck.  And only then, his eyes slide shut.  He draws her forward and leans into her, resting his forehead against her body.  She draws a long breath and strokes his hair with her fingers.  Her own eyes close, and she swims for a moment in the swirling sensations.  His breath is warm on the narrow stripe of her stomach that is exposed between the bottom edge of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans, bringing another rush in the depths of her chest.  Yes, she knows the exact word for that feeling, and it scares the hell out of her.  How could she have failed to name it up until now?  She can't remember a time when she didn't felt this way about him, but the sudden recognition of what she's feeling is astonishing.   Now, after he's married to Nicole.  The irony is not lost on her.

Luke's forehead is resting heavily against her midsection, several inches below the swell of her breasts.  He can feel her breathing, and is mildly surprised to note that her heart rate is a match for the pounding in his own chest.  What the hell is happening here?  Should he be … uh… hugging her like this?  He knows that he should go, but she keeps stroking his damn hair.  He has to remind himself that there's no way that she could know what that does to him, or how many times he's allowed himself to fantasize about her doing it.  Her clean, spicy scent fills his lungs, more intoxicating than any alcohol could be.  She has no idea that she's arousing him almost to the point of oblivion.  His hands slip slowly downward, following the side seams of her jeans, until his elbows rest on his knees.  His palms are on the backs of her thighs.  He struggles with the urge to pull her into his lap, which he knows that he absolutely, categorically CAN NOT do. 

Is she trembling?  Yes, he feels an undeniable tremor travel through her, and back again.  It is cold in here, he thinks. But he has to admit that she doesn't seem to be least bit chilled.  Quite the opposite, actually, she's radiating almost as much heat as he is.  He doesn't realize that she's been holding her breath until she resumes, her breathing deep and a little ragged.  He is forced to bite his lower lip when she idly drags her fingernails through the hair at the base of his skull.  His will is strained to the breaking point.  He has to leave.  Now.

She knows that she probably shouldn't be holding him like this, but she doesn't want to let him go.  When his hands make their long, slow journey down her body, she forgets why the hell she wasn't supposed to be enjoying this?  Right, it's Luke.  His palms spread themselves hotly against the backs of her thighs.  Oh God, oh God, he has no idea what that does to her.  She forgets to breathe, trying hard to control the surge of rampant desire that courses through her.  When she's sure that she's going to be able to continue standing upright, she remembers to draw air back into her lungs.  She's grasping at the threads of conscious thought that are floating perilously out of her reach, and the only one she can focus on is 'Luke'.  This is Luke.  His rough, unshaven cheek against her belly, his hands on her thighs, his hair entwined in her fingers.  She drags her nails lightly across his scalp, down near his hairline, and takes another breath.

And then it's over, as suddenly as it began.  Luke reaches up and gently lifts her hands away.  Instinctively, Lorelai steps back.  They both look away, and the moment is gone. 

"I - I'm gonna go get you a real bandage for your hand." she says quietly, retreating toward the door.

"Don't… I mean, I'm fine, Lorelai" he stammers, "I really don't need –"

"Sit down and drink your tea, diner man.  I'll be back in a sec."  She flashes him a quick smile, and disappears out the door before he can argue.

Luke falls back against the couch cushions.  He shakes his head.  Did that really just happen?  He closes his eyes, and rubs his face with both hands, trying to rid himself of the feeling of her thinly veiled body against his cheek.  It wasn't real, he tells himself.  No way did that just happen.

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