A/N: Since this is a birthday fic for Calaquende, I've taken the liberty of writing in her alternative universe, in which it appears that Saruman and Radagast are in some sort of ambiguous relationship (not really sexual, more domestic—think The Odd Couple), the War of the Ring is over but all the main characters are still hanging around Middle-earth, and Saruman has been defeated but not killed. He is just living in Orthanc and has been generally left to his own sinister devices. For a better idea, head over to Calaquende's profile and read her hilarious (albeit unfinished) stories. 'Cooking (Sinisterly) With Saruman!!' exists somewhere, I know. I'm just not sure where.

Radagast is kind of OOC, but Calaquende's Radagast is generally OOC—ridiculously cheerful, and very affectionate to Saruman, somewhat in the way an overbearing mother hen is affectionate to a chick with a bad attitude. And actually, Radagast appears so seldom in canon that we don't really know if that's OOC. In any case, it amuses me.

You know what? I totally don't own these characters. I don't really want them, either, except maybe Radagast, who might be fun to have over for tea from time to time.

Radagast and Gríma Ponder a Problem

Radagast the Brown was confused. This, he had to admit even to himself, was not such a rare occurrence. It had been nearly a year since he and Saruman had decided to live together (it would perhaps be more accurate to say that Radagast had showed up one day with all his personal belongings slung over one shoulder, and Saruman's protests had been feeble at best) and living in Orthanc was an experience often fraught with confusing circumstances and alarming goings-on.

Saruman's lifestyle choices could be rather vexing at times. It wasn't that Radagast hadn't known that prior to moving in. It was just that the abstract awareness that one's friend was breeding revolting slaves in his basement was not an adequate preparation for the shock of running into said slaves first thing in the morning on the way to breakfast. And Saruman's malevolent hangers-on—Gríma Wormtongue foremost among them—had somehow been much less disturbing before Radagast had been forced to share a bathroom with them. Radagast was still at a loss to explain what exactly Gríma did in the bath for two hours every morning. He had thought of asking once or twice, but decided that some things might be better left to the imagination.

But Saruman had been behaving strangely as of late—even for Saruman. Radagast had been wondering why for some time, which was why he had asked Gríma to join him immediately after his morning marathon bathing session to discuss it. Sometimes Gríma had a better ear for Saruman's mutterings than Radagast did, and he was hoping to induce Gríma to share whatever might be helpful.

'He hasn't been himself lately, Gríma,' Radagast sighed, filling his pipe for the third time that morning and starting on some truly prodigious smoke-rings. 'I've noticed, you know. He thinks I haven't, but I have.'

'What have you noticed?' Gríma inquired.

'Well, he's been extremely short-tempered lately…'

'Yes, well, he's usually a bit—'

'But he won't even pay any attention to me! Sometimes, when I enter the room and greet him, even when it's in my most bubbly, cheerful voice, he doesn't even hear me!'

'Are you certain he isn't just pretending not to hear you?' Gríma suggested. 'You know, the way he always does?'

'No,' Radagast said decisively. 'I am quite certain. Usually, he grunts at me, or murmurs something about what an imbecile I am, or something else of that sort. You know, pleasantries! At the very least!'

Gríma frowned, deep in thought. Now that he considered it, Saruman had gone a good long time without berating him for failing to keep the voluminous hard-bound books in his library dusted, or commenting in a snooty sort of way about the quality of Gríma's cooking. He had hoped it was just that he was becoming a better housekeeper, having been in Saruman's employ for—what was it now? —quite an interminable period of time, at any rate. Now, however, he was beginning to have second thoughts. It was a pity, too. He had been quite proud of the lemon tart he had prepared just the other week. Perhaps Saruman hadn't really liked it after all. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed. Gríma sighed in a hopeless sort of way.

'Gríma, are you listening to me?'

'Not especially.'

Radagast shook his head. This was the other problem with Saruman being out of sorts; Gríma was becoming completely unmanageable. 'I was saying that on top of everything else, just the other day, I was passing Saruman on the stairs, and I stumbled on that patch of slime between the third and fourth stories, and—by the way, Gríma, that patch could really use some attention, whenever you're thinking of it—'

'And?' growled Gríma.

'And I bumped into him.'

Gríma winced.

'And he said—oh, Gríma, he said—' Radagast looked as though he were about to burst into tears.

'Yes? He said?'

'He said—' Radagast paused dramatically. 'He said, Excuse me.'

Gríma's jaw dropped.

'I know,' Radagast said. 'It was appalling.'

'Did he add anything after that?' Gríma wanted to know. 'You know, like 'you insufferable fool' or 'you insignificant minion' or something along those lines?'

'No,' Radagast said mournfully. 'He didn't. He just said my name. And he didn't even add 'the Simple' or 'the Bird-Tamer' afterwards. Just Radagast. As if he didn't even care.'

'Well,' Gríma said. 'Well.'

'That changes things somewhat, doesn't it?'

'Yes. It does…You know, Lurtz was asking me just the other day if something was wrong with Saruman.'

'Do you know why?'

'Well, Lurtz had borrowed Saruman's staff—without asking, mind you—'

Radagast closed his eyes in horror. This was serious business.

'—yes, well, I've always thought there was something fishy about that Uruk. Far too fascinated with Saruman's staff for his own good, if you ask me, not that anyone does—and Saruman found him with it—I don't even know what Lurtz was trying to do, honestly, as if he could figure out how to work it—but Saruman caught him taking it into his own chambers, and he said, 'Put it back when you're done.' That's all he said.'

'When you're done?'

'That's what he said. Lurtz said he might have even said 'please'.'

Radagast was speechless.

'Well, Lurtz was terrified, of course. Figured Saruman was off to devise some diabolical form of punishment for him. He tagged around after him for days trying to figure out what it was, whinging on and on about it—'aren't you going to torture me and perfect me, Master, your fighting Uruk-hai and all that?'—but Saruman was having none of it. Told him to go out and mind the outer gate, and said—said that maybe some fresh air would do him good.'

That did it, Radagast decided. Saruman had gone round the bend. Radagast knew that Saruman kept some secrets from him, but he prided himself on knowing the White Wizard fairly well, and Saruman had never, ever expressed any fondness for fresh air of any sort. Radagast was quite certain of that.

'Something must be done,' Radagast announced.

Gríma did not respond.

'Don't you agree?' Radagast pressed. 'We can't possibly allow him to languish on like this. It's positively unhealthy.'

'Well…'

'Don't tell me you prefer him this way, Gríma.'

'You said it, I didn't.'

Radagast shook his head. 'What a positively disloyal thing to say.' It was true that Saruman's usual demeanour did not exactly inspire loyalty, but Radagast felt duty-bound to defend him anyway.

'I wonder if it has anything to do with the eighth of Quellë,' Gríma mused aloud, looking unusually thoughtful.'

Radagast frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, I was in the study, going through Saruman's personal papers the other day…'

'He's told you to stop doing that.'

'Not for a while,' Gríma objected. 'And in any case, he was busy lecturing the Uruk-hai about not making a ruckus in the middle of the night while we're trying to sleep. It took him a long time. I'm still not convinced they understand the Common Speech. In any case, the eighth of Quellë is crossed out on his calendar. In thick, black ink.'

'Sinister ink?'

'Naturally.'

Radagast got up and began to pace, coughing slightly as he did so. It was very difficult to smoke and pace at the same time. He set down his pipe quickly. 'Quellë begins tomorrow,' he thought aloud. 'That's only eight more days. I hope he isn't planning anything evil.'

'No,' Gríma disagreed. 'Evil plans always please him. We would know about them, anyway. He would have already started bragging.'

'Was there anything else written on the calendar?'

'Something in Elvish letters. I couldn't read it.'

'Bring it to me, please, Gríma.'

Gríma muttered something poisonous-sounding under his breath as he scurried from the room. Radagast ceased his pacing (it always felt unnatural, he admitted to himself) and filled his pipe again. What horrid thing could be approaching that would put Saruman out of sorts in this way? What unhappy occasion could make him so abnormally pleasant to be around?

'Here,' Gríma grunted, thrusting Saruman's desk calendar into Radagast's hands. Radagast turned to the month of Quellë and squinted at the hastily scrawled word.

He frowned—then gasped—then clapped both hands over his mouth.

'What?' Gríma growled. 'What?'

Radagast began to laugh. He dropped the calendar onto the black marble floor and clutched at his belly. He threw his head back and guffawed for all he was worth until Gríma clapped one clammy hand over Radagast's mouth to make him stop. 'Will you knock that off? He's going to hear us! What is the matter with you?'

'Oh, Gríma!' Radagast exclaimed, taking Gríma's hand away. 'Gríma, do you know what the eighth of Quellë is?'

'Of course I don't, you twit. I wouldn't have asked you if I—'

Radagast ignored him. He picked up the calendar and held it aloft triumphantly. 'The eighth of Quellë,' he said gleefully. 'The eighth of Quellë, my dear, disloyal, downright disconcerting Gríma—the eighth of Quellë is Saruman's birthday.'

And for the first time in Radagast's memory, Gríma's usually dour, pallid face lit up with a devious smile.