Even if Charles' hair were shorter and his face less hairy, Remus might not have recognized him: on the floor of the laundry room with sunglasses and a bottle of liquor is not anywhere he would expect to find Charles Xavier. It's like seeing a professor outside school, out of black robes, except exponentially stranger. A double-take wouldn't be enough to resolve the confusion, for one, and for two, Remus doesn't even give him that much attention.

He dumps his armful of clothing into a machine first (all together; his mother wouldn't approve) and adjusts the settings with the same unhesitating uncertainty as someone about lose at a shell game. Only once it's making enough noise for him to believe he's done something right does he look down the row.

He's only planning to be idly friendly to a stranger, but his quick sideways glance snags on the familiar profile and turns into a longer, squinting stare. "Charles?"