"Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it whether it exists or not, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedy." -Ernest Benn
Optimus watched, audials turned resolutely off as Prowl ranted and raved, soundlessly, pacing back and forth in front of the Optimus' desk, his face contorting in the most intriguing of ways as his hands waved expressively through the air. Prowl had been going on and on for so long that Optimus had forgotten what the mech had even gotten so worked up about in the first place. He was too engrossed in Prowl-watching to remember either.
So of course, when Prowl finally turned to him, with frustration and entreaty in his optics, Optimus had nothing to say but: "Do what you think is best, Prowl."
Prowl's frustration didn't diminish in the slightest, instead flaring behind his golden optics, but the mech inclined his head, "Thank you, sir." He left, wings remaining at their tellingly aggravated angle.
Optimus watched him go, wondering if he should have been listening. He shrugged and returned to the game that he had been playing on his console... to find that in the intervening time between Prowl coming into his office and Prowl leaving, he had managed to be killed. Optimus slumped. Now he was going to have to start all over again.