(addendum)  I tweaked a few of the words, then changed the ending.  I couldn't possibly leave it there for everyone to see for a couple of months

Peter was fifteen when he first used his Gift. Jo had come home one evening and gone straight upstairs. Mum and Dad didn’t notice anything, but Peter knew that she would never normally miss her favourite program.

He went upstairs and knocked on her bedroom door. She called out "What?" from inside, but there had been no sound of her moving towards the door. He opened the door anyway, an open declaration of war and a flagrant violation of the brother sister treaty.

She was sitting in her bed. Her favourite ‘pulling pants’ that she had come in wearing, trousers she had saved up for two months to buy, were screwed up on the floor, together with her knickers. Under the duvet her knees were pulled up tight to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them, fists clenched.

"Piss off, squirt. I’m not in the mood."

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, walked over her TV and switched it off.

"What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?" she shouted. "Get the hell out of my room now, or I’ll hurt you, you little freak. I’ll bust your balls, and don’t think you can go crying to Mum either, coming into my room when I’m changing, you perv!"

He walked over to her bed, sat on the edge and looked solemn-eyed at her.

"What?" she asked as he sat there silently.

"You can tell me about it, if you want. I won’t tell anyone." His voice was quiet, serious.

"What are you talking about, freak?" she asked angrily, but there was a quaver to her voice. He sat there silently for a moment, then hugged her.

And she wept. Quietly, so Mum and Dad wouldn’t hear. Great, silent sobs that emptied her lungs and left her choking for breath. She clutched at her younger brother as though he were the only thing to save her from drowning in her tears. Wept for minute upon long minute until there were no more tears, and then still wept, dry sobs that burnt her eyes and tore at her throat.

Finally, when she could breathe again, she told him. Told him about her fury at Dave bastard Simpson, her anger at herself for being so, so stupid. Her stupidity at fancying him in the first place. She told of her shame and guilt, the helplessness that she had felt when she couldn’t stop him. She told of the humiliation she had felt afterwards, as he had stood there with that look of contempt on his smug, bastard face.

Finally she talked herself out. And he continued to sit there, holding her in his arms, supporting her head on his shoulder as she sat there, eyes closed, breathing hard. An age afterwards she pushed him gently away and rubbed at the tear tracks with the heel of her hand. She nodded at him and he nodded back: a silent understanding.

"I’ll run the bath for you" he said, and rose from the bed.

She caught his hand. "Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Mum and Dad, will you."

He smiled reassuringly and shook his head. And he never did.

From that evening their relationship changed. The all-out war that had existed for 10 years ended, and they became allies instead. She started calling him by his actual name, and not by the vocabulary of insults she had assembled over the years. He stopped teasing her about boys and the way she looked. Their parents were puzzled, but mainly relieved.

"It’s as though they’ve just suddenly grown up" Mum told her husband. "I wonder why."

"Don’t ask" he replied. "Don’t jinx it, just be grateful."

And Jo coped. Coped much better than she had expected. It helped to know that he knew, and knowing, he treated her like a normal human being. It was as though all the poison had been drained out of her. Although she hated Simpson still, and the anger remained, it was no longer directed in any part towards herself.

But he felt that he had lost something. Innocence perhaps. But the world seemed a little darker. Life seemed a little heavier on his shoulders.

Three years later, and it was his turn to attend college. Mum and Dad were pleased and concerned in equal measure. Peter was never quite as bright as his sister, and they were pleasantly surprised that he got the necessary exams to qualify.

"But he’s so sensitive" Mum told her husband. "Do you think he’ll cope on his own, all that way away?"

"It’ll be good for him. He’ll learn to stand on his own feet. Anyway, he won’t be on his own for long. He’ll make friends in Halls. Besides," and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "we’ll be on our own for the first time in over twenty years."

So Peter moved into the Halls of Residence, along with all the other freshers. The first week was a round of parties, club recruitment drives, orientation talks, and yet more parties. Dad was right. He made friends quickly. The six other freshers in his unit would assemble together most evenings to fight over possession of the cookers, and to eat and gossip over the instant meals and leftovers that made up standard student fare.

A couple of months into the first term, and Annie missed a couple of the informal group dates. Peter knocked on her door. When she answered, he offered her one of the mugs of coffee in his hand. She nodded at the carrier bag hanging from his wrist. "What’s that?"

"Sandwiches. I got two by mistake. Want to help me out?"

"I’ve got so much studying to do. That’s sweet, thanks, but I have to work."

But he pushed the coffee on her anyway, and walked past her into her room. Books and notepads covered her desk.

"What’s the problem? Exams are a while away yet."

She sighed, looking at the mess of papers and shaking her head.

And then she told him. Told him of her feelings of inadequacy. Of how she had lost the plot of the lectures some weeks ago, and now could never catch up. She told him of how clever she had been back home, but how stupid she really was compared to her classmates here. How her parents would be devastated if she disappointed them, but how she couldn’t see how she could possibly cope.

Each time she faltered, he would ask a simple question in his quiet voice, prompting her to reveal more feelings of panic, despair and desperation.

Then, as the untouched coffees congealed, his questions changed. What did she need to do to catch up? Who in her classes could help her? How many weeks had she missed? Had she talked to her tutor?

And by the time he left for his own room she could see the problem far more objectively. She had a plan of action, a plan that she had formed herself. Peter hadn’t told her anything, not a single thing, but his gentle questioning had prompted her own thinking. Thinking that had been there all the time, but that she had not been able to hear over the screams of panic in her head.

Over time word of Peter’s Gift spread, first around the floor, then neighbouring Halls of Residence. From time to time people would call on Peter’s digs on some pretence or other. But he would know. He would ask a quiet question, and then they would tell him. Tell him about their problems with studies, about boy or girl troubles, family issues back home.

Towards exam time in his final year there even appeared to be an informal scheduling. People would hang around in the common room, watching TV with half an eye, nervously making jokes till Peter’s latest visitor made their way down from his room and, after a respectable pause, the next would make his way up the stairs.

Peter was popular. Why wouldn’t he be? The girls were happy that they had someone they could talk to who never judged, who never turned them away, and who always made them feel better. The boys had a friend that was no threat. But his Gift had a price. People opened up to Peter. Opened up their soul, their naked inner self. That meant that they had to trust him, trust utterly and completely. With this there was a responsibility. He couldn’t betray that trust, in the same way that a doctor couldn’t betray a patient, a teacher his student.

So there was never someone special for Peter. To date someone he had listened to would be like taking advantage of the drunken girl you had escorted home. It just wouldn’t be right.

Which meant that he wasn’t distracted by romance. Studying during his free time, he obtained his degree, not by a mile, but enough for him to get interviews with companies that were hiring graduates that year.

As a new graduate employee, Peter had a tour of duty in most of the departments in the company, but he gravitated towards Customer Services. He had a talent for listening. Customers seemed to like to talk to the quiet, polite man. Their carefully rehearsed anger seemed to evaporate when he answered the phone. At first his supervisor was unhappy with the amount of time he spent with each customer, but his customer satisfaction statistics were consistently higher than the norm, and after a while he was put on second-line support. Whenever a customer was difficult, or angry, or the problem was particularly bad, the customer would be routed through to Peter. Sometimes his supervisor would listen in, and be surprised to hear the customer sometimes talking of their pet being run over, or their marriage breaking up. But nothing was ever said. Customers that Peter dealt with remained dealt with, and even increased their purchases from the company.

Peter quickly made supervisor. As well as dealing with customers, he was now had staff reporting to him.

He hadn't been long in his role when he noticed Dan. Dan's work was OK, there hadn't been anything to suggest that there was a problem. But one day, walking the cubicle farm, Peter saw him and knew. He called him into his office.

At first the chat was normal manager-worker conversation. But as Peter asked his innocent questions, Dan opened up a little more, a little more, until the dam broke and he was telling Peter everything. About the problems in the product that could be fixed if only a slight modification were made. About the processes in the company that made communication between manufacturing and sales, sales and Customer Service so difficult. And how it all came to light answering angry customers that had been sold the wrong product for their needs, or who were reporting the same trivial fault three years after it first arose.

And by the end Dan had made himself a list of actions that he needed to complete. Wanted to complete. Positive steps to fix the underlying causes of the stress he and his co-workers were undergoing.

As more and more of his direct reports availed themselves of his open door policy, Peter’s team’s performance started to rise, the staff turnover, always high in Customer Services, started to drop. Within a couple of years he was the department manager, two years after that the division manager, reporting to the board.

It was the recession that made the board sit up and take notice. The company’s profits dropped, belts were tightened. There was a wages freeze, recruitment was halted and finance reviewed every expense.

Naturally, at the next employee survey, morale was found to have dropped. In every division, that is, apart from Customer Services. Inexplicably morale had risen, yet again. Obviously Peter was doing something right. Something that the other managers could learn from.

So it was one morning that Peter was shown into the large office of the Customer Service director. He sat Peter down on the designer couch and sat next to him.

"Peter, you’re doing some excellent work at the moment."

Peter smiled shyly. He didn’t accept compliments well, embarrassed at the attention. "Thank you. I have a great team."

"Nonsense. A great team is a reflection of a great manager. That’s why we would sack you if your division performed under par." He laughed. "Relax, man, I’m only joking. No, really, we are very pleased with your results at the moment. Your division seems to be the only one that isn’t plotting to murder the MD. We were a little concerned when you threw away the two-minute call turn around targets, but they seem to have paid off in the long term. Our customer after-sales reputation is second to none in the business, and that’s down in no small part to you and your team. You should be very proud. How do you do it?"

Peter shrugged. "I just listen, that’s all. If you just listen, people unburden themselves. They get rid of the stuff inside that’s hurting them." He was never that good at explaining things, but then he was seldom asked anything.

The director shook his head. "I’m not sure I understand. Are you saying that our staff need a psychiatrist?"

"No, they’re not crazy. It’s just everyone, you, me, everyone, has…" he groped for the right words, "… bad stuff in them. Not much, usually, but when life gets at you, a little part of the pain and anger stays there. I just listen till they have emptied themselves of all that… bad stuff." he finished lamely.

"Everyone?" asked the director, disbelieving.

"Everyone."

"But you seem sane enough. You’re the most perfectly balanced person I’ve met. Do you have ‘bad stuff’ in you?"

"Listen!" said Peter, his face suddenly intent.

And he told him. Told him of the impossibility of refusing his Gift to anyone. Of the terrible loneliness that imposed. Of his consuming envy of happy couples. He told him of the nights he had cried himself to sleep, thinking of all those heart rending secrets that he was forced to keep. As his boss leant away Peter grabbed the lapels of his suit and sobbed about the unfairness of healing all those pained and wounded souls, but never being able to heal his own.

But his pain was merely reflected back at him. He felt no better for telling this all to his frightened boss. His burden was no lighter. His boss didn’t have the Gift. That was Peter's own, special Gift.