The blow rings across the Devil's face, snapping his head to the side and making him stumble a pace; there are abrasions on his cheek from the strike, and when he regains his footing he presses his fingers against the injury and feels it throb, just for a moment, before it disappears. The injury is nothing but a scratch on his vessel, but the greater issue is the insult of it. Crowley is forgotten, no longer even a cursory part of the proceedings.

The audacity. The sheer, unrepentant audacity of this small angel is more than Lucifer has ever had to bear before, and he will not suffer it. He has given Aziraphale more than enough warnings, has told him that this impudence would not be tolerated, and he has not heeded it.

He is bold and brazen, all splayed wings and righteous indignation. Lucifer could smite him into dust and starstuff where he stands.

But that? That would be too gentle a fate for him. No: there is an example to be made here.

With a beat of his wings, Lucifer bends space around himself and reappears behind Aziraphale and his disheveled wings; it is time to give baby brother a lesson in fighting, and show him why it took Heaven's most powerful warrior to cast down the Adversary. He grabs the angel by the wings, reaching down to the base of one and at the first joint of the other, twisting it hard until it locks.

"Learn your place, Aziraphale."

And then pulls until he hears the snap of bone.