Actually, he jumped (approximately three feet, he decided later; he'd definitely felt the handle bang into his back lower than it should have) and fell off the suitcase, landing in an ungraceful heap beside it. The smell of burning cloth penetrated a second later, and he briefly turned into a blur of limbs as he tried to get sorted out enough to pull the cigarette away from whatever it was destroying.
Part of his jacket, he realised after a moment, but that was more the slight sting in his arm.
"Fucking hell," he said finally. "I fucking live here. Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you fucking well doing!" Gun, he thought, where's the goddamn gun - then he remembered that it was in the suitcase.
"Fucking hell," he added, in case that wasn't clear.