Work Text:
The office holiday party was always an Event to be remembered (and gossiped about in hushed voices), a last hurrah to send off the dying year. This party, though, will be remembered for years to come.
It's not every day the big boss loses every ounce of composure.
“I don’t believe it,” Saanvi exclaims, head bent low over her punch. “Who brought a bottle of scotch?”
“Who do you think?” retorts Anthony, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Apparently, Boss mentioned he’s a fan.”
“At our monthly wrap-up. In May,” mutters Maya, caught somewhere between fascinated and revulsed. “How long’s she been working here?”
“Since May,” Anthony deadpans. Saanvi snickers helplessly into her drink.
Halcyon Corp is never the warmest working environment, but the holiday party has filled their office with an almost-foreign brightness. The fluorescent lighting is softened by strings of white twinkle bulbs strung merrily along the walls of the break room; the rich scent of catered food drifts through hallways, carrying visions of Giovanni’s cheesy pasta dishes and three-tiered cheesecake. (Whoever suggested they have the party catered, instead of yet another company potluck, is definitely on the Nice List this year.) A gaudy electric-green tree has been set up near the elevators; its plastic fronds are wilting, ornaments mismatched and dingy. Paper snowflakes hang from the ceiling tiles like deformed angels. (Judging by the excess of glitter and paint, Melissa’s kids contributed their talents.)
It’s a very familiar vibe. All the same faces, the same decorations, even the same goddamned Christmas songs. There are a few changes to the yearly roster: Carl, the new IT manager, Maryam, the new receptionist, the endless cycle of interns who might not even have names. And, of course, Hollie from Marketing.
She’s been working here for the better part of a year, and the truth is, no one knows exactly what she’s contributing to the team. Hollie manages their website, which is as sleek and impersonal as you’d expect a corporate website to be. Anyone who’s sat in on a team meeting, though, knows Hollie seems less interested in web design and more interested in… office diplomacy.
Whatever weight she’s not pulling with the team, she’s definitely contributing to their boss’s waistline.
In the past six months, Rob Sargent, the general manager — soon to be regional manager, someday to be CEO, if all goes according to his plans — of Halcyon Corp has taken several private meetings with the new marketing lead. Some of these meetings stretch late into the evening. (Mr. Sargent always works late, ever since his marriage fell apart. Another hot topic for office gossip…)
In the last six months, the company has expanded their digital reach, made strides into social media… but so far, they’ve failed to go viral. The only thing that’s “blown up” is Mr. Sargent’s appetite. Their stern, self-controlled boss has now gone up two suit sizes. He’s been caught snacking in his office, sneaking bags of Doritos under the table like a shameful secret. He’s begun to take long “business lunches”. The truth is, no one knows where he goes — they’re never on the schedule, and no one ever accompanies him. He returns to the office an hour later… heavy on his feet, gait unsteady. His clothes look too tight, suit jacket unbuttoned to expose a swollen belly. His stomach leads the way, and Sargent only follows; sometimes he clutches his gut, a dazed expression on his face. When asked if he’s okay, the boss hiccups sharply, wipes the back of his mouth with his hand, and manages an officious nod. “Quite fine. The meeting went— urRrp— very well.”
He stumbles into his office and shuts the door tightly behind him. The blinds drawn. The lock clicks.
Only then does Hollie magically reappear in the office.
It’s all… very suspicious. Anyone paying attention could connect the dots.
And let’s just say, a few attentive employees are paying attention.
“Really,” Saanvi whispers; she feels bad about gossiping, but there’s no way to keep it in. “He’s having more pasta? Another plate?”
They all saw the way Sargent decimated his first serving. The boss has been sitting at the head table like a king at his throne, surrounded by some of his closest advisors in the office. They’re all milling about with drinks and plates of food, talking jovially… but Sargent is eating more than chatting. And good god, can that man put away a plate of cheesy pasta.
The boss’s cheeks are flushed a heady crimson. He leans back in his chair, breathing out in slow, shallow bursts. The plate before him is empty, save for the remnants of sauce and gooey cheese. A small orange stain lingers at the corner of his mouth; a splash of sauce marrs his otherwise-immaculate suit. He doesn’t seem to notice — or doesn’t care. Sargent looks like he’s paying attention to the conversation… but there’s Hollie, sitting beside him. Tonight, the marketing executive has donned a sleek green dress, shining metallic under the fluorescent office lights; a wreath of garlands sparkles in her auburn curls. The dress clings to her hips and shows off her bust in a way that’s almost obscene for a company party. As always, she treads the line between corporate-compliant and scandalous. Nevermind her hand obviously resting on Sargant’s knee under the table.
“Oh Jesus,” mutters Maya. “Feels like we shouldn’t be watching this.” She’s not looking away.
“Is no one else seeing it?” muses Saanvi.
“Everyone’s seeing it,” Anthony retorts, “but Sargent could fire any of them, and wouldn't lose a night’s sleep over it. Shit, would you say anything?”
His coworkers swallow hard. That’s answer enough.
Without an ounce of shame, Hollie leans in, murmuring something in Sargent’s ear. Her glances over at her, clever eyes flashing beneath a scotch-fueled haze. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. A soft chuckle rumbles through him, followed by a hiccup. Hollie reaches up, brushing the sauce at the corner of his mouth with her thumb.
Sargent murmurs something low; from a distance, it looks like, you take such good care of me.
They can’t hear Hollie’s reply… but they see her slowly raise another glass of liquor to the boss’s lips.
The last thing he needs tonight is more alcohol, but Sargent doesn’t hesitate. He laps at the drink, sipping it down with something like bliss. A few rich mouthfuls, and he turns his head away. Scotch isn’t something you can simply chug, like beer or vodka. It’s meant to be savored — enjoyed in waves.
Hollie strokes his chest again, like they’re in perfect agreement. A fresh hiccup jolts out of Sargent. His companion grins.
Before Hollie’s arrival, no one would have called their boss a heavy man. Sargent was sleek, lean, with steely blue eyes and a sharply-defined jaw. Handsome, if he didn’t look so damn brooding all the time. (A stressful job and nasty divorce will do that to you.) He wasn’t a warm boss, and no one went to him for comfort. It was a truth universally acknowledged that Rob Sargent in a bad mood was to be avoided at all costs, if you wanted to keep your job.
Since Hollie’s arrival… he doesn’t brood as often, that’s for sure. No one knows what to make of the way his face has begun to soften, sharp jaw losing a bit of definition. When he’s bent over his desk, hard at work, it looks like he’s developing a small double-chin. Sargent can no longer lean in close without his stomach pressing the edge of the desk; it swells outward now, a soft roll of belly pressing against his belt. Always a sharp dresser, Sargent’s waistcoats and tailored suits can no longer hide his extra girth; in fact, his new clothes seem to highlight it. You’d think he was showing off for someone…
Or maybe trying to prove he’s the big boss on campus. He doesn’t even have to be ashamed of his beer gut. He’s the Man, after all — the one all the underlings stand in awe and fear of.
Tonight, their boss has clearly pushed past his limits… and the girl beside him wants to push even more. If he’s aware of his employees staring, Sargent doesn’t seem to mind. Hollie notices, of course; her spritelike gaze flits across the crowd, catching the curious stares a half-second before they look away. People are watching. Oh yes, people have noticed. What the hell is happening here?
Hollie murmurs something to Sargent, nonchalant — we’re attracting an audience.
The boss’s liquor-soaked gaze roves over the room, but it’s like he doesn’t even see his co-workers — doesn’t even notice his associates at the same table. He only has eyes for Holly, and for his fourth plate of food. A slab of risotto this time, thick and creamy, drenched in rich sauce.
“Fucking Christ,” a passing executive hears him groan. “This is going straight to my gut.”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame,” Hollie agrees airily.
The executives exchange wide-eyed looks; they say nothing at all.
By the time Sargent has finished the risotto, spooning it bite-by-bite into his already overfull stomach… he can’t even see straight. The fullness has left him panting, buttons straining against his nice waistcoat. With every breath, there’s a real chance they’ll pop off. The liquor is beginning to hit him en force. His head lolls; his words slur. Periodic hiccups jolt him, and a few of the booziest ones turn into sloppy belches. He tries to cover his mouth, but… Christ, that’s so much effort. They’re at a holiday party. Everyone lets loose at a holiday party, right?
Greg Sawyer, the head of their accounting division, dares to ask: “You alright, Rob?”
Sargent offers a lazy smile, waving the question away. “Juss’ fine. Shit, I’m doin’ amazing. In the— hiIICurp— Chrissmas spirit.”
“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” someone whispers.
At a later point in the evening, someone gets the bright idea to bring out the Santa hats. Someone else has the (frankly inspired) idea to plant one on Mr. Sargent’s head.
“Ho ho ho,” the boss deadpans — and it’s a sign of how far-gone he really is, because he’d never tolerate a Santa hat sober. “Why not. I’ve already—oourp—got the gut for it.”
He gives his belly a shameless tap — which unleashes a massive brruUUuoorp. The belch is thick and sloppy, resonating throughout his corner of the room. Drunk as he is, Sargent has the grace to cover his mouth. “E’scuse me,” he slurs; then, in a softer voice, because apparently he still has some shred of shame: “Not myself tonight.”
“I disagree,” Hollie chimes, returning to their table. She’s balancing two plates in her hand — one, with a large slice of cheesecake, and the other with an assortment of pastries from the dessert table. Another glass of alcohol, too. Champagne this time. Jesus, she’s shameless.
Later, gossiping coworkers will swear she leans close to Sargent’s ear and says, “I think you’ve never been better.”
‘Tis the season for indulgence, and their boss doesn’t hold back. The vixen by his side would never allow it. He drains the glass of champagne, and exhales a bubbly burp into his fist. For a moment, he just sits there, breathing hard. His stomach is swollen against his tight clothing; even from across the room, people can feel the strain, practically hear the gurgles and groans of digestion emanating from his packed belly.
When Sargent’s unsteady hands undo the button of his pants… he’s not the only one to breathe a sigh of relief.
Pastries first. The cheesecake can be tackled later. He begins with a tiny red velvet cake, consuming it in several languid bites. Frosting lingers on his top lip for a moment too long. Hollie’s hand twitches, itching to wipe it… but Sargent can handle himself. His tongue flickers out, cleaning the mess.
Hollie’s mouth moves — dear god, is she calling him a good boy? — and she raises a cannoli to his lips.
It just keeps going.
By the time one dessert plate is cleared, the boss’s head is tilted back, his breathing shallow. He can’t shift in his seat without a tiny groan. Both hands cup his stomach under the table, and it’s clear he wants to rub it badly; only a thin veil of public decency holds him back. Soft burps rumble up on every breath, and the groans of digestion in his stomach are almost thunderous.
“This is…” By now, the tiny clusters of gossiping coworkers don’t know what to say. A few people have already gone home, and they’ll never live it down; they’re missing the show of the year.
“This is lewd,” someone decides.
“Definitely. Totally,” another coworker agrees, their cheeks flushed crimson.
“Is this some kind of kink thing?” someone whispers — and doesn’t understand why people snicker. It was an honest question.
“Fuck it,” someone else decides. “At least they found each other. Look at the poor bastard. He’s in heaven.”
“Never been happier in his life,” someone else agrees. “Or heavier.”
Apparently, Rob Sargent’s idea of heaven is sprawled out in an office chair, sinfully drunk, his clothes half-unbuttoned and his belly pressing underneath the table. Having an audience might be part of it. Hell, the Santa hat might be too. But being spoon-fed mouthfuls of cheesecake by the most beautiful woman in the company — hell, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen —
If this is heaven, he’s died a happy man.