He crosses the distance between himself and the injured angel with smooth strides, his control and posture a sharp contrast to Aziraphale's pained dishevelment. He is clearly waiting for the next strikes, hands raised in some feeble, and frankly amusing, attempt at defense.

As though Lucifer really even needs to dirty his hands with touching Aziraphale.

But there is a sort of visceral satisfaction to the physical act of destruction, and he is going to make an example of this unruly angel. Some things you just have to do by hand.

He pushes again, to slam Aziraphale back into the tree he's braced against, taking advantage of the fact that the very thing he's using to keep upright is also a firm striking surface for his damaged wings. And then he's close enough to curl his fists and aim for the face, the stomach, to beat Aziraphale's meatsuit bloody and shake the angel inside it around harder than a margarita.