He glances back at them, and then to her, as if he's expecting her to fix them. Moreover, he's still hunched forward, giving her the opportunity to do so. Normally, once a task that required someone to be within his personal bubble was completed, he backed away (or shoved them away, whichever proved to be more efficient). He's not. He's just sitting there, watching her like some sort of feral beast who's unsure of whether he was dealing with friend or foe.

"I'm not fighting to protect you or this miserable world," he reminds her grumpily.

Vegeta just wants to fight. Fighting is all he has left, really. If he keeps fighting and builds up his strength, then maybe one day he'll be presented with an opportunity to avenge his people and actually be able to take it without that purple-haired stranger or that clown, Kakarot, robbing him of the victory he so desperately needs.

"Like you said, I didn't have anywhere else to go."

The admission is a quiet one, a rare moment of raw honesty from someone usually so carefully guarded. Anyone who got close enough to him could see that his tough, bristly exterior was more or less an act, a security measure taken to protect himself from the cruel harshness of the reality he's lived since childhood — but most people never get that close. Most of those who've managed are dead and gone, some by his own hand.